Put me in coach, I'm ready to play
by bemusedbicycle
Summary: Emma is the new head of PR for the Pittsburgh Pirates and her first task is to get playboy shortstop Killian Jones under control. Shameless CS AU.
1. Prologue

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose as she stares at the homepage of , a picture of the Pittsburgh Pirates' shortstop grinning blearily at the camera - a pretty brunette straddling his waist, fingers curled tight around her hip - gracing the homepage. The headline reads _Pirate Goes Plundering_ and she is just about to have a breakdown – just about.

She isn't paid enough for this.

Maybe she should have stayed in Kansas City.

But thinking of Kansas City makes her think of brown eyes and broken promises and _fuck_ –

Her thumb rubs against the inside of her finger in a compulsive twitch only to find bare skin instead of cold metal and she sighs again, staring at the clock above her door. He's late – of course – and she's just about to pack it in (with dreams of wine bottles dancing through her head) when he comes swinging through her door.

He's wearing a pair of loose fitting sweats and a Pirates t-shirt - obviously just coming from the showers in the locker room because her office now smells like axe and teenage hormones – a worn and used baseball cap slung backwards on his head. Black tufts of unruly hair stick out through the front flap and he pauses in the doorway, bright blue eyes widening slightly when they land on her.

"Uh, you're not a man." Is his genius greeting and she is momentarily taken aback by his light British accent. She has read his bio, knows he hails from some far off corner of the UK, picked up in a scouting combine in Boston, but still -

He gives her a slow grin and practically _struts_ over to one of her chairs, dropping himself into it and fixing her with an intense stare. She arches an eyebrow at him because – _what the actual fuck_?

"No I'm not." She replies and they simply stare at each other for a moment until she remembers that she's supposed to be _berating_ him for his behavior – not engaging in some quasi wild west stare down.

"Mr. Jones –" She begins but he cuts her off quickly.

"Killian." He amends and the smile he shoots her is positively dripping in sin. She fights the very real urge to roll her eyes because he is just so _typical_ – fitting the stereotype of over confident male athlete to the letter. Nothing she sees is making her feel better about this whole PR nightmare – the party boy star athlete apparently _not _a persona painted on by the media. He tilts his head to the side as he looks at her.

"You're new." He surmises.

This time she does roll her eyes. "Obviously. Now, Killian – "

"Where did you come from?"

She clenches her fists as the once very real possibility of wine goes flying out the window. Irate, she bites the inside of her cheek. "Well, when a man loves a woman –"

His chuckle is deep and rich and his eyes shine as he leans back in her chair, propping his feet up on the edge of her desk and crossing his arms. She pushes his legs off and he falls with another snort, grin spreading wider to flash perfect white teeth.

It's easy to see why he's so popular with the ladies.

"Oh yes? What happens next?" His eyebrows raise high on his head as his tongue does something _obscene_ against his bottom lip, chin falling into his hand as he stares at her expectantly. She schools her face into an unamused look (which isn't hard, considering just how _unamused_ she is) and turns her computer monitor to face him.

His gaze switches over to it quickly and he doesn't even have the audacity to look contrite. He shrugs with a little frown and averts his eyes back to her.

"Did you want details?"

She stares at him mouth agape because – _really_?

Rage simmers in her stomach and she sits up in her seat a little straighter at the same moment _he_ does, fingers adjusting his hat on his head. "Or better yet, how about you and I get out of here and I _show_ you."

"You have got to be kidding me. Listen –"

"We could round first base." He cuts her off with a lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows. "I could show you my _swing_."

"Oh my god. You did not."

He doesn't look deterred. "Ground rule double, perhaps? Slide on into home?"

When she doesn't say anything at all – instead choosing to stare at him like he's sprouted another head – he frowns. "You don't look like you bat for the other team, so to speak."

Amusement pulls at the corners of her lips because he's using _baseball puns _to hit on her. It's like he's not even trying – or he is – and she is genuinely curious when she poses her next question.

"Does that ever actually work?"

He shrugs at her with a small sort of nod and she sighs – realizing that it definitely has _nothing_ to do with the way he approaches women and _everything _to do with the way he looks. Bright blue eyes, tall lean frame, messy black hair in a constant chaotic sweep – the way his lips always seem to be moving in a way that just _beg_ you to think of them parted and panting –

Alright, enough of that.

Said lips twitch upwards with a smug smile (like he knows what she's thinking and he probably does, _damnit_) and she blushes lightly, flicking off her computer monitor and grabbing for her purse.

"I called you here because I need you to cool the antics. You're creating a mess for yourself, and for your team."

His gaze is cool as he appraises her, jovial mood disappearing almost immediately when the word _team_ leaves her mouth.

"And for you." He adds quietly, standing when she does.

She nods because he's right – it makes her job more complicated when a player is going off the rails. She pulls on her coat. "I just need you to be a gentleman."

He arches an eyebrow at her strange way of articulating appropriate player behavior and grins, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. He takes a step closer to her as she rounds her desk, just shy of the point of uncomfortable.

"I am _always_ a gentleman."

-/-

It's the bottom of the sixth when she finds her eyes drawn to him _again_, shifting his weight back and forth, bill low over his forehead. His eyes slant in concentration towards David as he readies for the pitch, punching the inside of his glove several times in quick succession and then stilling completely.

The stadium goes almost completely silent – fans waiting with baited breath. Ruby stills almost completely next to her, fingers ending their constant clacking to watch the next play.

The pitch goes and the crack of the ball as it makes contact against the bat echoes through the ballpark. She stands in her seat in the press box as the entire crowd does the same, the ball arching high and left, straddling the line between foul and fair. She bites at her thumbnail as Killian shifts beneath it, suddenly running full steam ahead towards the left side of the field. He waves off Jefferson and sprints madly, turning just before the wall and tilting his glove up.

"Holy shit." Ruby mutters and she's tempted to agree because that is just a _ridiculous_ catch and there is no way -

He goes head over ass into the stands, nothing but the bottom of his cleats visible over the low wall. The umpire rushes over and signals the out, the crowd bursting into cheers around them. Her heart beats madly in her chest as she keeps her eyes trained on where he disappeared, leaning forward with hands braced on the edge of her desk in the open air box.

He appears suddenly, hand holding the ball high in the air and she sighs, confusing relief slumping her shoulders. She watches as he tosses the ball to the ump and then steps up on the low wall. He hesitates, even as his team mates crowd around him, and turns suddenly, eyes searching as he looks into the crowd. His gaze lands on the press box, and she watches as the magnified version of his face grins slow and wide on the jumbotron behind him.

Still standing on the wall, he flips off his hat, bending at the waist and tipping his head down in an exaggerated (absolutely _absurd_) formal bow. Blue eyes peer up from under a thick fringe of black hair and she swears to god he's looking right at her.

The mouthing of the word _gentleman_ pretty much confirms it.

Asshole.


	2. Chapter 1

_The response I've gotten to this already has been absurd. I truly hope it lives up to your expectations! And as always, big thanks to Sarah for letting me type in all caps about storylines and providing me with gratuitous pictures of Colin in baseball gear. [x]_

_[ ] _

**Chapter 1**

His head _aches_ - the lights in this room far too bright, the hard table at his back really doing nothing for his overall well-being. He groans and tugs his cap further over his face, covering his eyes with a dramatic arm swing. He can hear Victor chuckle – the _prat_ – and kicks out with his right foot in his general direction.

Perhaps he should have stopped after the second whiskey. Alas, he never was one for moderation.

"Are you hungover?" David's voice is loud and booming and he winces, putting his hands over his ears like a child because maybe if he pretends, David will just disappear. David is every inch the natural born leader of the team - the strong, chisel-jawed pitcher – a regular _Prince Charming_.

"My expert medical opinion is yes." Victor chuckles and he finally sits up on the bench, yawning wide and giving the athletic trainer a half-hearted glare. He can feel David's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head but he ignores it, choosing instead to scratch his hand roughly through his hair.

"Your medical opinion is bollocks." He grumbles and Victor just gives him an exasperated look.

"And you get more _British_ when you're in a piss-poor mood. Hydrate, it will get rid of your headache." He tosses a water bottle and Killian catches it easily, Robin casually strolling into the locker room. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, hair completely askew, easy smile on his face and Killian's scowl deepens at the sight of him. He pauses when they make eye contact.

"Are you hungover?" Killian sighs and watches as Robin's gaze darts over to David. "I thought he had a meeting."

Killian glances at David and David puts his hands on his hips, practically radiating authority. "I thought you had a meeting."

He thinks of the beautiful blonde with sharp green eyes and long, _long_ legs and grins, falling back against the wall.

"Ah yes, I most certainly had a meeting." He arches both his eyebrows high on his head. "Did you know our new director of PR is not a man?"

David scoffs. "Of course Emma isn't a man. Why did you think she was?"

"Emma." He sounds it out and another grin blossoms on his face. All he was given prior to their meeting was a small slip of paper with the name _E. Swan_ scribbled across it and he had been a bit too taken aback – _green eyes, green green eyes_ – to catch her name.

Plus she had been yelling at him – and a woman in charge provides its _distractions_.

"You know her then?" David gives him a careful look and he schools his face into a look of pure innocence. It obviously doesn't work because Robin snorts and throws his duffle to the ground, pulling off his sweatshirt and reclining on one of the long benches that line the center of the room.

"Ah, so the bow is explained."

David's head snaps over to Robin so fast, Killian practically hears the muscles screaming. Rob looks up at him with a vague sort of gesture mimicking a bow. "You know, the other night. He was very clearly looking in the direction of the press box."

"I wasn't– "

"Don't even." David gives him a deadly serious look and he actually freezes, stomach twisting in an uncomfortable way. It's rare for David to get genuinely upset about something, let alone in regards to him. He fancies them friends – _good_ friends – after all their years together - and to see him react this way over a _woman_, well – it's disconcerting.

"Don't mess with Emma, Killian. I mean it." At his blank and somewhat confused stare, David elaborates. "She just transferred here from the Royals, and she left some pretty bad stuff behind. So leave her be."

"Kansas City?" Hs mind immediately jumps to all the connotations of _bad things_ and his hands clench by his sides. He feels a sudden irrational surge of anger, and he isn't quite sure why. "Is she alright?"

David nods, but it's a bit sad. "She will be. She just – "

As if on cue, the door to the locker room swings open, revealing her in all her blonde-ponytailed glory. _Emma_ makes a bee-line over to where they are huddled together, eyebrows furrowing as she looks him up and down. He gives her his best charming grin, but she just frowns in response.

"You look like shit." She states bluntly. She leans forward suddenly and sniffs at the collar of his neck – warm vanilla and something distinctly feminine swirling around him and _gods – _before leaning back with narrowed eyes.

"Did we not just have this conversation?" She snaps and fire dances in her steady stare. Robin laughs like it's the funniest fucking thing in the world (which it most certainly is _not_) while David runs a soothing hand against Emma's back. Emma calms fractionally at his touch and Killian files that away for later contemplation.

"To what conversation are you referring, darling?" He takes a swig of his water bottle and sighs happily at the sweet relief it brings.

"I said no more drinking."

Annoyance flares in his chest because he is not a schoolboy in need of nursing by his _mother_, thank you very much. "No, I believe the term you used was _antics_ and don't fret, love. My pretty mug wasn't snatched by a single one of those vile paps. I drank at home."

At her pointed look, he finishes. "Alone." A wicked smirk twists at the corners of his lips. "Why, are you jealous?"

A faint blush climbs her cheeks and he much rathers it up close and in-person as opposed to halfway across a baseball diamond. He makes to take a step forward but David coughs in a very obnoxious (and not at all _subtle_) way.

"I just want you to listen to my instructions." She seethes from between clenched teeth.

He rolls his eyes. "Demands, more like it. And I did as you asked. I'd appreciate some gratitude."

"What? Do you want a gold star?"

"I certainly want _something_."

He slides his tongue along his bottom lip and watches as she huffs angrily through her nose. They stare at each other quietly, eyes appraising as some strange sort of hostility brews between them. Her phone goes off, interrupting the moment. She glances down at it and takes a step backwards.

"Open locker room in 15 minutes. Get ready for the media."

And with that she leaves, stilettos clicking across the floor, blonde hair swinging behind her. He tilts his head and watches the curve of her hips as she moves – his imagination _just_ starting to get creative when David smacks him roughly on the back of the head.

He glowers at him and David just sticks a warning finger in his face.

"Don't even."

-/-

He stares hard at the unopened bottle of rum sitting on his countertop.

Rocks back on his heels.

Turns and does a lap around the living room before coming back and staring at it again.

He fingers the cap lightly, draws his hand over the comfort of the label. He doesn't drink because he _likes_ to – he drinks because he _needs_ to. And he knows that's a problem in and of itself, but the nightmares are just too thick without it – dark and catastrophic and _consuming. _

But Emma is right – stubborn and irritating as hell – but right. His behavior is starting to become something of an expected course of action by both local and national media and he suspects the team owner Regina had some sort of ulterior motive in bringing Emma in. The previous head of PR was a bit lax in regards to player behavior and it's just too coincidental that he made the front page of the same day the Swan girl moved to Pittsburgh.

He cringes when he thinks of that picture – the dopey and out of this world face he was making in it, the faceless, nameless woman caressing his jaw.

He thinks of the way David and Rob sometimes look at him, like he's a ticking time bomb about to explode. When Emma mentioned the team, she didn't know just how effective a tool that was, how compelling it is for him to protect not himself, but _them_. The team is the closest thing he's had to a family since -

He slides the bottle towards him and undoes the cap, drinking straight from the lip, ignoring the glass tumbler to his left.

-/-

"How do you know Emma?" The ball smacks loudly into his glove and David frowns, raising his own a bit as Killian tosses the ball back. It's towards the end of practice, everyone sort of spread out and loosening up from a demanding work out. He lured David out to the backfield under the false pretense of _working on his arm_ but in reality, the way David had soothed Emma with hardly a touch has been running on manic repeat in his head.

Not that he cares.

He isn't jealous.

He _isn't_ jealous – really.

He knows David and his wife Mary Margaret were fated by the stars or something equally ridiculous. He is more – intrigued.

Curious.

"Why are you asking?"

Killian rolls his eyes and tosses the ball up in the air before slinging it quickly over to David. The thud echoes and David shakes his hand slightly with a smirk.

"I'm merely curious. Obviously the two of you have some sort of history and you've failed to mention a beautiful blonde in all the years we've known each other." He wiggles his eyebrows because he knows being an asshole will get David to respond to his questions. "Does your wife know?"

The ball comes whizzing back quickly and this time it's Killian who has the shake the feeling back into his hand. All-star pitcher, indeed.

"It isn't like that, Jones. Don't be an asshole." Killian bows his head slightly in apology and David continues with a small half-sigh. "Emma and I grew up together."

"Family?"

"No, not exactly." Something about the tension in David's shoulders brings that unpleasant twisting back to his stomach and he swallows hard as he catches the ball. His fingers smooth against the rough, worn leather and he's just about to pose another question when David continues.

"Listen, it isn't my story to tell, and I don't know what Emma would or wouldn't want people to know. So let's just leave it at I've known her for a long time, and I'm very protective of her." He gives Killian a pointed look – a look that reinforces the same _don't even _talk from the other day – and Killian nods, not having the heart to make a comment. He can tell this is important to David and after all – he understands the importance of family.

"How goes the wee one? Any day now, yeah?"

David's face lights up at the mention of his yet-to-be-born child, all gravity dissipating from the conversation and Killian breathes a sigh of relief, letting himself fall easily into his friend's happiness.

-/-

Pregame is in full swing when he spies her walking along the edge of the dugout. Her hair is in loose curls over her shoulders, the bright blonde strands practically sparkling in the bright stadium lights. She's wearing a modest black dress with a bright yellow scarf and her dedication to team colors is – cute, in an odd sort of way. He shakes his head and goes back to stretching his legs out (_because when the bloody hell did he start thinking of women as cute_), bending at the waist and grabbing at his ankles. He lets his head drop down with a light groan, and automatically meets her wide-eyed gaze – upside down from between his legs.

She's completely frozen, pen halfway to her mouth, and he blinks at her. A light blush climbs her cheeks as she turns her attention back to the leggy woman in front of her – the brunette not even noticing her diverted attention.

Killian straightens and looks at her over his shoulder, lifting his cap and running his fingers through his hair in a few, quick swipes. She keeps her gaze away from him and soon turns back towards the tunnel that leads to the concourse, no doubt about to make her way back to the press box.

He'd be lying if he said his gaze didn't drift towards her desk seven more times during warm ups.

Not like he's counting.

-/-

He's tired. Every single muscle in his body is burning. Whatever idiots say that baseball is not an athletic sport are _lying_ because he feels like he's been put through a bloody dishwasher and it's only the top of the seventh.

He watches as Robin adjusts his posture behind the plate and motions to David what to throw. He makes sure to put a few lewd suggestions before the actual call and Killian cackles under his breath, watching as David smirks just the slightest bit. David winds back and Killian bends down low, bracing himself on the balls of his feet because the guy at bat likes to hit them low and strong and –

The batter makes contact and the ball goes straight to his left. He doesn't even think, just pushes himself over and extends his arm. He feels the ball make contact in his glove, the tense vibrations of it rolling from his fingers into his shoulder. But he doesn't pause, doesn't breathe, because he can see a red blur moving between the bases and he pivots his body, shooting the ball over to first. Smee easily tags the man out and suddenly, the crowd comes roaring back into focus around him. He grins wide as he lies on his back in the dirt, David's beaming face soon appearing above him.

"You're a cocky bastard." David shouts and Killian's grin grows wider. "But you do back it up now and then."

Killian takes his extended hand and lifts himself up, making his way back to the dugout with the rest of the team. His eyes inevitably find her in the press box, once again leaning against the outer edge like she just can't help herself. His eyes meet hers and just _knowing _the jumbotrons are focused on his face, he lifts his hat up and tilts his head down, sweeping low into a grand bow.

The barest hint of a smile lifts her lips.

It's a start.


	3. Chapter 2

_Thank you for all your lovely messages – I sincerely hope you enjoy this next little bit. _

_[ ]_

**Chapter 2**

The locker room is chaos when she and Ruby push in, players and coaches celebrating the win with loud cheers as they clean up from the game. Most of the players are already half-naked, throwing their dirty shirts off to the side as they clap one another on the back. Ruby sighs happily next to her as Jefferson walks by in nothing but his boxer briefs, her eyes dancing down his mostly bare frame.

"Do you ever just stop and appreciate your life?" She licks her lips as her eyes dart around the room. "I mean I am really _appreciating_ my life right now."

Emma rolls her eyes but a smile twitches her lips regardless. Working with professional male athletes certainly has its perks.

She spies a familiar mop of messy black hair and slides around a vehement showing of masculinity to grab him. Luckily he's still dressed and he's with Robin, so two birds with one stone.

She does not want to dwell on Killian Jones losing the uniform – she does _not_. It was bad enough when she caught him stretching during the pre-game workout – bent at the waist while the muscles in his shoulders flexed and _dear god she needs to not_.

"I need you both for the press conference – " She pauses as Robin turns, a small boy perched happily in his arms. He's wearing a miniature version of Robin's jersey and it's clear as day that he belongs to the catcher, the dimples alone a dead giveaway. Still, Emma finds herself smiling down at the boy. "And who is this?"

Robin chuckles and shuffles the boy in his grip, ticking his side. "Ms. Swan, meet Roland Hood. I, unlike my parents, did not wish to brand the boy with a hysterical fairytale name. Roland, say hello."

The small boy ducks his face into his father's neck with a shy smile as Emma grins at him. She chuckles under her breath when he whispers something in Rob's ear.

"It seems the little lad is awestruck."

Her eyes dart over to Killian to see him already watching her with smiling eyes, arms crossed as he leans against his locker. His hair is deliciously disheveled from his hat, sticking up every which way, and he's got a nice streak of dirt from when he made his diving catch. She coughs and averts her gaze back to Rob.

"Are you good to do a press conference?"

Robin grins and looks down at Roland. "What do you say? Want to do a press conference with dear old dad?"

Roland nods shyly and Robin chuckles, giving Emma a nod of agreement. She gives him a grateful smile because snagging players for post-game press conferences is always a tedious affair. Her eyes dart back to Killian who seems to be edging alone the row of lockers, closer to the showers.

"You too, Jones. Let's go."

His shoulders slump and he gives her a ridiculous pout. "What? I don't get asked if I am _good_ to do a conference?"

She grabs his arm and starts hauling him towards the entrance to the locker room. "Nope, you are required."

"Oh, darling." He shifts his arm in her grip so that his fingers brush hers, following her easily when she pulls her hand back like it's been burned. A shock of heat rushes through her with the contact and she bites the inside of her lip, _hard_. "I will happily be _required_ by you any day."

She rolls her eyes (at this point she is surprised they don't just roll right onto the floor) because she doesn't exactly trust her voice and really, he is just such a _moron_. He snickers under his breath as their little crew makes their way down the short hallway to the press room. Emma holds open the door as Ruby disappears to collect transcripts and manage the media frenzy that is the open locker room, and Robin hops on up to the podium, Roland perched on his shoulders.

The media begins their questions and she's grateful that they are taking it easy with a kid present. They keep the camera flashes to a minimum and their voices low, and she smiles at how easily a group of hungry reporters can be tamed by a child.

"Is it too much to hope that they will maintain this level of civility for me?" He nudges her with his shoulder and the look on his face is apprehensive so she smiles in response.

"Please. After the weeks you've had? I don't think so." He frowns, a tinge of nervousness swimming in those big blue eyes of his and she taps her pen on his shoulder. "But the sooner you get these questions done the better. I'll keep you protected."

He looks down at her with a surprised quirk of his lips. "I appreciate that, Swan."

She fiddles with her notepad and averts her gaze to the cameras. "Just doing my job." She mutters, because she is. Part of her job is protecting players from unfair questioning and maintaining order in the press room.

He is no different.

"They're going to ask you about it, you know." He tilts his head at her in question and she sighs, flipping her pen back and forth against her pad. Her eyes scan the crowd of reporters as they jostle and yell to get Robin's attention before she looks back up at him briefly – which was a mistake, obviously, because he's grinning at her and his eyes are so _blue_ and he is just _ridiculous_. She gestures with her hand. "The whole formal bow thing."

"Ah." Realization dawns on his face and if possible, his grin widens. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and leans back against the wall, but offers no further comment, merely watching the spectacle of the post-game press conference.

She huffs through her nose. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

She rolls her eyes because she swears he is being difficult on purpose. She scans the reporters and doesn't miss the pleading look Robin gives her. She signals for two more minutes and he forces a grin, leaning forward into the mic.

"What are you going to say?"

"About what?"

She resists the very real urge to stab him with her pen. Maiming one of the star players would not sit well with Regina, especially in a room full of witnesses. She bites her lip and clenches her fists. "About the dumb shit you do to irritate me. What are you going to tell them?"

Blue eyes snap down to hers and his grin curves up. He sways further into her space, wrapping her in the small of sweat and spice and _him_ and _jesus_, this is no good. The toes of his cleats nudge her stilettos and she takes a step back, only to be met with the wall. He leans forward further, eyes glinting in amusement and puts his hand on the wall by her head – still keeping enough distance between them to maintain a sense of propriety, but close enough for her to feel his body heat.

"Quite an inflated sense of self there, Swan, to think that has anything to do with you." She blushes and his eyes search her face, teeth flashing when he takes note of the color rapidly climbing her cheeks. _Stupid_, god she is so _stupid_. "And your language surprises me. I expected an elevated vernacular from a woman of your stature."

_Vernacular_. What _even_ –

"Last question!" She shouts out from her place pinned against the wall, narrowing her eyes as they maintain their strangely intense eye contact. She listens as Sydney shouts out some rambled jumble of a question from the _Mirror_ and then pushes forward, nose coming dangerously close to skin as he doesn't immediately step back.

"You're up, Jones." She mutters and he hums under his breath, staying in her space for one moment longer before retreating, stepping over to the podium and clapping Robin on the back. Robin look relieved and he shoots Emma a thankful grin as he ducks out of the room to head back to the lockers.

The press loses it when Killian steps up to the microphone - his spectacular playmaking combined with his social antics makes one hell of a story, and this is the first time he's been made available to the media since his spread on ESPN. Emma sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose because she can feel the headache already.

But Killian is a natural with the media – easily charming them into submission. She only has to shoot out four death glares and honestly_, _she was expecting a lot worse. Plus Killian looks endlessly amused when she asserts her power as head of PR, cutting off Sydney with a snap of her fingers when he dwells a little too long on the ESPN spread and Killian's drinking habits.

She shouts her last call warning and of course, the last question is the one she was dreading.

"What's up with the little curtsey thing?"

Killian throws his head back in a laugh, scratching behind his ear. "I prefer gentleman's bow, thank you very much." His eyes slant over to her when he says the word _gentleman_ and god damn him, she _knew_ it. He smirks and looks back at the reporter. "It's merely an assurance that I am capable of doing as I am told and - "

His lips linger on the word, gaze once again seeking her out. "I do enjoy a woman in red."

And like clockwork, a hot blush works its way over her cheeks.

Asshole.

-/-

_Gentleman Jones Saves The Day _is the headline on the sports section of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette the next day and she rolls her head against her neck, closing her eyes and chugging her coffee because the last thing she needs is the media mocking her as well. But that seems to be just what Killian wants because the article goes on to question just _who_ is this mysterious woman in red (she's never been more glad for idiot journalist and their desire to take everything literally) and _what_ her sway over playboy Killian Jones is.

She thought the Post-Gazette was serious journalism, not tabloid fodder. She has half a mind to pick up the phone and call their lead editor but she resists, instead reaching for her cell phone and tapping out a reminder to Ruby. They have a community event at a local elementary school in half an hour and the thing she's learned about Ruby in the past three weeks is that the woman is habitually late. She needs Ruby to show up on time and get everything moving because she has an appointment with Regina and turning down the owner of the team is frowned upon - regardless of the fact it might leave a bunch of MLB players alone with a hoard of children.

And like Regina can sense her thoughts (and Emma think she might actually be able to, Regina is an imposing woman – to say the least), she casually walks into Emma's office, sliding in the chair across the desk.

"Hello, Emma." Her voice is smooth and quiet and _powerful_ and it is terrifying to Emma that this woman manages to be so commanding even with a simple greeting. But she supposes she has to be – being a woman in a man's world isn't easy, especially as an owner.

Emma nods a greeting back as Regina picks up the paper off her desk, smirking when she sees the lead story. She thumbs through it in silence for a moment, tilting her head as her eyes scan the page. "I see you are already worth the investment."

Emma sighs in relief because when Regina requested this meeting, she wasn't exactly sure what she was in store for. David organized her initial interview and it was hard to get a read on Regina during the process, her brain sufficiently occupied with _other_ things and –

Regina puts the paper to the side. "How are you doing?"

Emma blinks and tries not to fiddle with the pen in her hands. "Well, I think. Players are starting to get familiar with my face, and I'm working on my relationship with the local media. I think things are going – "

"No, Emma." Reina crosses her legs and folds her hands neatly on top of them, bright red nails catching the florescent lighting. "I am very are of how you are exceeding in your position. I must say, you are a breath of fresh air after that idiot before you. He was a disaster."

Emma starts to articulate a _thank you_ but Regina continues on. "I was asking how _you_ are. How have you been faring after everything that happened in Kansas City?"

It's like a sucker punch to the gut. She breathes in sharp but pressure builds behind her eyes anyway, the betrayal and the anger and the anguish of years _wasted_ washing over her in bitter, tumultuous waves. She averts her gaze to her desktop and fingers lightly at the edge of her spiral notebook.

"Oh, you know." Her voice breaks and she coughs in a pathetic attempt to cover it. "I'm working on it."

She doesn't mention that she has to bite her lip so hard it hurts in the shower to stop the sobs from coming and she definitely doesn't mention that she has seen far too much _Quantum Leap _for her tastes but it's the only thing on at 2:30 in the morning when she can't sleep. She doesn't mention that her hand feels too light without the metal of a ring and she doesn't mention that she fears the hole in her chest where her heart used to be is permanent – another person who left her behind added to the list – forever the lost girl.

She looks back up and Regina opens her mouth to say something, the look on her face oddly comforting – though Emma can't articulate why. But she seems to second guess whatever she was going to say.

"It gets easier." She says carefully and when Emma gives her a bland look in response, she laughs. "I promise it will. I know it doesn't feel like it, but it will."

Regina stands and brushes the back of her skirt. "Plus if it doesn't, I'm sure our boys will keep you plenty occupied."

She gives a pointed look down at the newspaper and Emma can't help but agree.

-/-

She gets to the school and parks in the lot, already hearing the happy screeches of children in the playground attached. She smiles as she gets out of the car because this is her favorite part of the job – the awestruck look on the kids' faces when they see their idols up close, the happiness that just radiates from their being when they get to play (and beat, if the players have any sense whatsoever) with the stars.

She slips in through the chain link fence and her grin spreads when she spies Roland running along with the other children. He's still wearing his little Hood jersey and it makes her heart swell.

"Alright, now who is going to tag me out?" His voice is loud over the laughter of the children and she turns her head to see Killian playfully dodging between kids. He's wearing a Pirates hoodie and that same damn backwards baseball cap, face absolutely lit up in a wide grin. He whoops as David comes out of nowhere and tackles him to the ground and the kids cheer, piling on top of the players. She is mildly concerned for their safety – she _does not_ want to explain to Regina how she injured half the team at a school event – but Killian pushes David off and instead picks up a kid, throwing him high in the air.

It's surprising to her that he's good with children – it certainly doesn't fit with the whole lothario image he has going. Not only does he look comfortable, he looks happy and calm - the tense lines that she's noticed linger around his eyes nowhere to be found. His gaze finds hers through the crowd and he stills for a moment, smile tilting the corners of his lips. She smiles back because she's too tired to roll her eyes and that same sort of surprised look that he shot her in the press room climbs his face.

"Oy, you little miscreants! See that pretty blonde over there?" This time she does roll her eyes because it's like he can't even help himself – hopeless _flirt_. Some of the little boys groan in embarrassment and the players laugh. She throws her bag down by her feet and approaches the group. "She's a player from the other team. Tag her out!"

Thirty tiny humans come rushing at her and she screeches, running around the playground as they take chase. David grabs her as she rounds the slide and lifts her up over his shoulder, laughing when she playfully swats at his shoulder. She is breathless with laughter as Ruby attempts to pull her down and the children clamor around them.

It feels like ages since she's been able to breathe and when David sets her back down she takes off again.

Maybe Regina was right.


	4. Chapter 3

_Beyond blown away with all of your sweet review. Thank you for taking the time to read!  
_

**Chapter 3**

He's pretty sure he takes David by surprise when he accepts his offer to Friday night dinner, because he practically takes his head off with his bat when he turns to look at him with wide eyes. His Friday nights of late have been otherwise occupied by booze and women – and more booze and more women. But he is turning over a new leaf, _so to speak_, and a quiet dinner with the Nolans is exactly the type of thing he _should _be doing.

Plus there is the added bonus that Swan will most likely be there, and it's enough to get him to drag a decent button up out of his closet and pick up a bottle of wine for Mary Margaret.

It isn't until the petite and very pregnant Ms. Nolan opens the door that he remembers she can't drink wine and he immediately feels terrible.

"Should I run out and get you some tea?" She gives him an indulgent grin as she guides him into the foyer, taking his coat and making him feel _worse_ because he should be doing that himself. "Peanut butter? What do you pregnant women like?"

"We like kind men with handsome faces." She cups his face with her hands and kisses him lightly on the cheek. Her eyes are warm as she leans back and he feels something pull at his chest. "It's been far too long since you've come to visit, Killian. We've missed you."

"Aye." He sighs and relaxes, releasing the death grip on the bottle of wine. "I've missed you as well."

There's laughter from the kitchen as Mary Margaret leads him down the hallway and he's greeted by the very welcome sight of Emma Swan in tight skinny jeans, head thrown back in open laughter at something David mutters under his breath. He practically freezes in the doorway and watches her – the same openness lighting her features as the other day, the day they spent at the school. She had been beautiful as she ran around the playground – her sinuous body and gentle curves hardly a match for the way she smiled.

God he sounds like a ponce – _the way she smiled?_

When has he ever cared about a woman's _smile_?

_Once_ his mind whispers and he stomps down on it hard – but not before a flash of rich laughter burns its way through his heart and causes a stoke of pain to twinge through his veins.

Emma freezes when she sees him, her eyes clouding and tension radiating from her shoulders. He frowns at that because he doesn't want to make her feel uncomfortable. It seems she has enough going on with readjusting her life to Pittsburgh and he's hardly wanted to make her life hell. Annoy her, yes – because he loves the way her skin flushes – but he doesn't want her to hate him.

He inclines his head slightly. "Swan, Dave." He lifts the bottle of wine in his hand and winces when his gaze falls back to Mary Margaret. "It seems I forgot how pregnant your wife is, mate. More wine for us then, yeah?"

Emma still regards him with suspicion as he moves closer to the island where they are chopping vegetables, but seems to thaw slightly when he keeps his mouth shut and snags a corkscrew. He offers her a glass as a peace offering and she gives him a quiet thanks. He bites back both the retort and the urge to roll his eyes and he thinks he deserves a bloody crown for not succumbing to his less than honorable side.

But Mary Margaret is in the room and she is smiling happily and talking about how nice it is that Killian is back and he can't seem to bring himself to act like an ass – fun though it may be.

He notices several things throughout the course of the evening – one being that Swan is positively sinful in her skin tight jeans and low cut sweater (he chokes on his pasta when she leans for the pepper), two that Mary Margaret is still an excellent cook, three that Dave and Swan most definitely _did_ grow up together – their interactions very sibling like and their stories stretching back to grade school, it seems.

And four, he's missed his friends very much these past few months.

They get regulated to dish duty after dinner and he rolls his eyes at David's smug laughter, pressing a kiss against the back of Mary Margaret's head as he slides out of his seat and clears dishes. She hums and pats his shoulder lightly, free hand draped over her belly in a soothing gesture. Emma gives him a strange look when he turns and hands her a stack of dirty dishes, but she doesn't say anything until he's elbows deep in suds (how he got the unenviable task as scrubber while she got to keep her hands dry on towel duty, he will never know).

"You're different around her." She says quietly and she gives him a small, soft smile as she takes a dish from his hand. Her fingers brush his and a he grabs at the sponge to distract himself from the heady buzz twisting its way through his system. Emma nods her head towards Mary Margaret in silent explanation. "It's sweet."

Killian frowns and wipes away some pasta sauce from a plate. David eats like a barbarian on the best of days and he can always tell which is his. "Are you saying I am not always _sweet_, Swan?"

She rolls her eyes, but it's more amused than frustrated and he acquiesces. "Aye, Mary Margaret has been very kind to me. I owe her a great deal."

Emma grabs a fork from his outstretched hand. "What do you mean?"

But that's a story for another day (and hopefully that day is never) so he just winks at her, letting his tongue roll against his bottom lip. Good form takes its toll and her sweater is clinging to her chest and after all – he is a _pirate_. He leans in close and lets his nose just barely skim the shell of her ear.

"She can be a very _giving_ woman."

The idea that Mary Margaret has been anything less than faithful to David is ridiculous – and they both know it. But he resorts to his innuendos when he is feeling defensive and Swan is wheedling a little too close for comfort on things he does not like to dwell on. Her answering sigh is light and he chuckles under his breath as he hands her a serving spoon.

"There you are." She mutters.

-/-

He can't sleep – too much running through his mind - not enough alcohol to dim the thoughts and cease the nightmares from coming. He pours himself a glass of whiskey as he falls into his leather recliner and flicks on the television, stretching out with a light groan as the bluish tint fills his living room. The Home Shopping Network is on – as it always is – and he soon loses himself in the dulcet tones of people selling things.

He buys a SodaStream even though he hates soda because it looks awfully handy and the woman selling it really enjoys whatever concoction she's brewed up in the thing. And it also makes sparkling grapefruit juice, which he's never had, but he would bet his next paycheck that it's delicious with vodka.

As most things are.

His phone beeps with an incoming email and he arches a brow as he opens it – attention still half focused on the egg cooker on the screen (_How do you like your eggs? Hard-boiled for lunch or cut into wedges in a tossed salad? Or perhaps poached or soft-boiled for breakfast? And you can't forget those delicious deviled eggs when entertaining_). He dutifully unsubscribes from every customer based system so his email remains flawlessly organized and when Emma Swan's name appears in his inbox, he reaches for his laptop without hesitation.

There's a little green dot next to her name and he types out his message.

_K. Jones: Work emails at 3am on a Saturday night?_

His eyes scan over the email as he awaits her response – a schedule for this week's media engagements. There are a couple press conferences, a radio show or two (which are bloody miserable and the headsets make his ears itch), and an appearance at a local restaurant for an autograph signing. He's distracted when the messaging box at the bottom of the screen lights up.

_E. Swan: Technically, it's Sunday morning._

He snorts into his whiskey glass - fiery as ever. He starts to type out a response but she beats him to the punch, another little line popping up in the small window.

_E. Swan: I couldn't sleep._

He stares at the screen for a long time and takes a large gulp of his drink, the fire burning down his throat.

_K. Jones: Well, the Home Shopping Network is having a sale on Tan Towels, if you are so inclined. _

_E. Swan: Are you saying I need a tan?_

He smiles because he can imagine her indignant tone.

_K. Jones: Far from it love, I am quite enamored with your pale skin._

_K. Jones: Oh delightful, they've moved on to Ginseng tablets. _

_E. Swan: You are ridiculous. _

_K. Jones: On the contrary, I am a man who recognizes a good deal. _

He puts in an order for three boxes of those tablets because they support your immune system and he _is_ an athlete – needs to watch out for his well-being. He notices he has another message as he swirls his whiskey in his glass.

_E. Swan: Do you frequently impulse buy?_

_K. Jones: I frequently impulse a lot of things, as you very well know. _

He pauses and taps his fingertips against his keyboard.

_K. Jones: But yes, when I can't sleep the Network keeps me company. _

He thinks about adding how he likes to hear the comfort of voices in his too quiet apartment but that's a bit much to admit to himself, let alone someone he hardly knows.

_E. Swan: Quantum Leap. _

_K. Jones: Sorry?_

_E. Swan: I watch Quantum Leap when I can't sleep. They always have marathons on the Syfy channel. _

He picks up the remote and flips to the channel in question, tilting his head when Scott Bakula in drag appears on his screen. He imagines Swan curled up in a ball on her couch and leans back further in the recliner.

_K. Jones: But those shoes are so dreadful with that dress._

_E. Swan: It gets better. I promise._

-/-

He's just getting out of the shower when he hears the metal door that leads to the locker room slam open, the light click of heels against the floor immediately identifying her. He snickers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist because he knows very well why she has sought him out all the way down here, and he is very much looking forward to her reaction.

He steps out of the shower just as she steps into the open area and she is just as angry as he expected, body radiating tension as she stomps over to him.

"Cover yourself up, Jones." She seethes and he shrugs his shoulders, unwrapping the towel from around his waist and dropping it to the floor, leaving him completely naked before her. She makes a choked sound in her throat as her eyes go wide and he is absolutely _delighted_ when she scans him quickly. Her cheeks flush the color of cherries before she averts her gaze, swallowing thick and crossing her arms over her chest.

He picks up his track pants with a chuckle and slides them on, coughing pointedly when he is decent - leaving his chest bare as he leans against his locker. Her eyes snap back to his with a glare.

"You know that can be considered sexual harassment?"

He rolls his eyes because it's a weak defense for the color that still stains her cheeks. "Hardly, darling. You came into the locker room while _I _was in the shower, knowing full well that state I was in. But if it's something sexual you are after – " He leans forward into her space and her breath hitches, smirk lifting his lips as the sweet, sweet smell of victory (it's distinctly feminine, floral, sensual and intoxicating – funny that) overcomes him. "Then perhaps we can work out an agreement."

She huffs and pushes her hand against his chest, but he doesn't miss the way her fingers linger over his skin, still warm from the shower. "You wish."

"Oh sweetheart – " He lets his eyes drop down her body, lingering on her exposed collarbones, the delicate line of her neck. "You have no idea."

But it's more than just _that_. He's intrigued by her – pulled in by her snappy wit and scathing attitude. The way her lips curl up and her green eyes flash when she is saying something truly threatening. The way she grins at David and the way she wears a pencil skirt – _god_ – the way she wears a pencil skirt. He hasn't been captivated by a woman since –

Well, it's been a very long time.

She sighs in something that sounds suspiciously like frustration and his grin just stretches wider. He does enjoy getting a rise out of her. For the first time he notices the box under her arm and she pulls it out, thrusting it into him.

"What is this?"

He arches an eyebrow but refuses to touch the box, giving her his best _are you stupid _look. "It's a scarf, love."

She taps her foot and nods. "Yes, from the Home Shopping Network. Why do I have it?"

He shrugs and frowns, pushing the box gently away from his chest. "I'm not quite sure what the point of this question is. Are you asking me to justify your purchases?"

"I didn't buy this scarf, Killian, and you know that. Why did you buy me a scarf?"

He rocks back and forth on his heels and pushes his wet hair back, scrubbing at it with the discarded towel. "I know not of what you speak, darling." 

Her eyes dart back down to his chest, lingering on the inked emblem over his heart, and he smirks because the blush is back and _god_ he wasn't joking when he said he loves a woman in red. Her skin seems to glow from the inside out and there is something deeply satisfying getting a woman as closed off as Swan to crack. It's precisely why he bought her the red scarf in the first place. Imagining it twisted loosely around her neck (perhaps bound around those delicate wrists, but that most certainly is _not _a gentlemanly thought) made him feel dangerous things at 4am under the haze of one too many whiskeys and his phone was dialing before he could second guess it.

But then her expression changes quickly as her eyes narrow in on his forearm. Her brows furrow in concentration and he feels lead settle in his stomach, twisting and pulling and eating away at him like it always does.

Her fingers touch his skin before he can even articulate a thought, soft and gentle as she traces the bleeding heart. His whole body flinches at her caress, the heat that he associates with her being forcibly overridden by memories of chestnut curls and _his fault, his fault, his fault_. He pulls back from her and folds his arms over his chest, suddenly regretting this whole _play with Emma _game because her eyes are serious and a little shocked and she's turning him on his axis – flipping everything around.

He frowns and scratches roughly at the back of his neck, looking everywhere but her. He spies his t-shirt folded neatly on the edge of the bench and grabs for it, shrugging it over his head. His mind is busy cataloguing his liquor store (cause there is no way he is sleeping tonight, not now) and he doesn't notice when she takes a step closer.

"I'm sorry." She begins and he's surprised at the way she's wringing her hands together, eyes guilty. "I didn't mean – "

He waves her off with a forced casual twist of his hand and sighs. "Not a thing, love. Old ghosts and all that." He frowns and looks at his feet, watching the way she shuffles closer momentarily and then steps back. He pulls his baseball cap backwards over his head and meets her gaze, forcing a smile. Her eyes linger on his before drifting up, smirking when she takes in the furious mess of hair no doubt peeking through the snaps.

He sighs and he doesn't know why he says it, but it is out of his mouth before his brain can really catch up. "You know how that goes, right Swan?"

It's a lot more honest than snarky and he knows the answer even without her articulating it. Because why else would she be up at 3am sending work emails. And why else would she have that look of empathy on her face when he completely shut down. He sees it in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders.

_I couldn't sleep._

A lost boy always recognizes a lost girl.

The smirk drops from her face and her eyes harden. He practically shivers in the frigid glare she shoots him and she's turning on her heel before he can say anything else. The door to the locker room slams shut behind her and he idly wonders if every time they take a step forward, they will immediately take ten back.

-/-

He's swinging his bat back and forth, tapping David randomly all over his back and seeing how long it takes him to get a reaction when a flash of red in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He turns his head slightly to find Emma chatting away happily with one of the base coaches, her hair spilling over her shoulders in bright blonde curls. She's wearing the scarf he bought her, the red fabric bright against her creamy skin.

David takes advantage of his momentary distraction and swats him upside his head with his glove, laughing heartily when Killian drops his bat.

But he doesn't look away from Emma, and he raises both eyebrows when she meets his gaze, pleased grin stretching his face.

He does love a woman in red.


	5. Chapter 4

_Sorry for the delay! I was in the hospital but now all is well and I have function of my right arm. Good to go!_

**Chapter 4**

The plane is cramped when she finally boards, making a beeline for the row of empty seats to her left. Ruby is late, as usual, so she whips out her phone and sends a thinly veiled threat (she doesn't know how thinly veiled it is considering it is sent in all caps) to get to the plane on time. She can't handle an away series on her own, and she will be damned if she is the one running transcripts in her stilettos.

"So nice of you to join us." A body plops into the seat next to her and she groans, directing her attention back to her phone as Ruby sends a text back. She says she's already on the plane but Emma can't see her in the mass of people so she just accepts it and switches her phone to off, the rumbling of the jets starting around them as the plane begins to taxi. She looks at Killian next to her with a frown as he buckles himself in.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the players section?"

He arches his eyebrows as he leans back in his seat, fiddling with the arm rest. "There is no players section, love. How else could our formidable owner sit with our dear catcher without attracting attention?" He nods his head to the plane where she can just make out Regina and Robin's heads.

"Really? Those two?"

It wasn't unheard of for members of staff to get involved with the baseball side of things, but the Royals made it painfully clear player-personnel relationships were off limits. Gold was an owner with a harsh temper and rigid rules and she never even thought about toeing the line. To see an organization be so lax with the line between baseball and business, well, it was refreshing.

And strange.

Killian chuckles next to her. "Aye, although they think they're being awfully clever about it."

She arches an eyebrow. "How did you find out?"

His eyes glint happily as he picks up the Sky Mall magazine, thumbing through it with interest. "I babysit Roland quite often and I find he is a _wealth _of information."

"You interrogate a child for information on your friend?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm hardly barbaric, I give him ice cream." He grins at her, wide and free and she chuckles in response, digging out her laptop and settling in.

-/-

The rain isn't coming down yet when they land in St. Louis, but if the heavy black clouds rolling in are any indication, the storm is going to be a beast.

Naturally the storm holds out until _after_ all the pre-game work is done and the fans are in the stands - both teams seated in the dugout - a few of the brave ones with their heads tilted to the heavens. She taps her fingers against her lips as a gentle patter of rain begins to fall, keeping her eyes on the cluster of umpires close to home plate.

A sudden commotion from the visitor's dugout draws her attention and she watches as David steps out, gesturing to the announcer's booth. The fans just above the dugout throw their heads back in laughter and clap their hands and she's just about to phone down to figure out what the hell is going on when David beings to dance.

Like a moron.

The AV guys catch on quick and some ridiculous song comes floating through the speakers as David starts to get really into it and she simultaneously wants to smack her head against her desk and record the whole thing for future humiliation.

A few of the other player's join him and she watches as Killian steps out into the rain, hands braced on his knees for support as he laughs at his friend. The fans are getting into it now, cheering on the Pirates and Emma smiles because it's unusual for a visiting team to get such a reception. But the Cardinals stay silent on their side of the field and its entertainment for the bored fans – so the cheers continue.

The dancing continues, getting exceedingly more ridiculous and the umpires finally decide they've had enough when Killian thinks it's a good idea to slide his body across the wet plastic covering that protects the field.

She tries to be mad, but this is only good press and her laugh is loud in the otherwise silent press box.

A boom of thunder seals their fate and the game is cancelled.

-/-

The window is cracked, the faint dewy smell of summer rain drifting in with the light breeze and she sighs, twirling her wine glass between her fingers. As irritated as she is to have the game cancelled, it's nice to have a moment to just _breathe_. Away games are a _marathon_ – the stress of travel and an unfamiliar environment seeping all the energy from her bones and turning her into a useless pile of jello, for lack of a better comparison. The end of an away game series usually has her crawling into her bed at some ungodly hour, still in her business casual from the plane, and passing out before her head can even hit the pillow.

Those are the only nights the nightmares don't come – when she doesn't wake up with tears on her face and a hollow ache in her chest. She's too tired to even _feel_.

The shrill ring of her phone pulls her from her morbid thoughts and she puts her wine glass down on the nightstand, eyebrows furrowing as she looks at the phone. The number tells her it's from another room within the hotel and she glances at her cell to make sure no one's tried her on her work line before picking it up and balancing it between her ear and shoulder, muting the television with her free hand.

"Hello?"

There's a muffled crash as the person on the other end drops something and then a curse and she knows immediately who it is.

"Swan, delightful, I've been trying to reach you all evening."

"What do you mean you've been trying to reach me all evening?" She flicks her thumb over her phone and is again greeted with a blank screen – no missed emails, no missed messages.

There's a pause and then a chuckle. "Well, I knew you were in the hotel. Just didn't know which room."

She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs into the phone. The idea of Killian calling every room in the hotel and then hanging up just to talk to her is causing her temples to pound and an uneasy feeling to sink in her stomach. It twists in her gut and feels suspiciously like _fear_ – of what, she's not entirely sure – but she grabs for her wine regardless.

"What did you need?"

"Oh, darling. I have many needs. Where should I begin?"

His voice takes on that deep, rumbling seductive tone he sometimes does and she hangs up the phone without thinking about it, the crash of the cheap plastic oddly satisfying.

It rings again a second later.

"Apologies, love. I will behave like a 'reasonable adult' as you are so fond of saying." He spits it out so fast, it takes her a second to actually realize what he's said. She opens her mouth to respond but he beats her to it. "So, what are you wearing?"

This time she yanks the phone forcibly from the wall, the cord swinging around and landing in the center of the floor like a limp noodle. She stares at it hard for a couple moments as she seethes, and half expects the thing to ring regardless. She has never been more grateful that Killian Jones doesn't have her cellphone number.

A knock sounds at her door.

She groans.

With reluctant steps, she shuffles over to the door. He's leaning against the wall casually when she throws it open, his dark hair in its perpetual mess, blue eyes dancing in barely restrained amusement. She downs the rest of her wine glass as he openly appraises her, eyebrow arching as his gaze lingers on her sweatshirt.

"This is a different look for you, Swan." He pushes past her into her room and she drops her head back, staring at the ceiling and praying for patience. She isn't a devout believer but she damn well might become one if he keeps this shit up.

"I like it!" He shouts from somewhere behind her and she turns to find him picking at the hotel provided snack basket she placed under the desk, bent at the waist, his black sweatpants stretched deliciously tight. He isn't even wearing shoes, the moron, and she imagines him padding about the hotel in his socks – a _professional baseball player_ – acting like a child, as always.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" She lets the door to her room shut with a quiet click and leans against it, twirling her glass between her fingers.

"Your room is bigger than mine." His fingers mess with the light switch, flicking it on and off and on and off again. He turns to her with a frown. "Why is your room bigger than mine?"

She pushes off the door. "Because I'm more important than you." She slaps his hand away from the light switch and reaches for her bottle of wine, refilling her glass because she's sure as hell going to need it if he's intent on sticking around. It's just like the plane earlier, but different. His presence is welcome, some strange pull tugging her to him (albeit reluctantly – _very_ reluctantly). But it's more intense now, and it doesn't take her long to figure out it's because they are in a hotel room.

Alone.

Together.

_Alone_.

He smirks at her and sways closer. "Are you saying –"

He abruptly cuts off when his eyes drift behind her, gaze widening slightly in shock. She blushes when he starts to grin and takes a heavy gulp of her wine to distract herself from the way he's moving closer.

"Home Shopping Network." He hums quietly and his eyes find hers, amusement and _something else _swimming in their depths. "Why Swan, did you miss me?"

He's so close she can smell his aftershave – something clean and warm and salty and she resists the urge to bury her nose in his neck, claw her fingers up her shoulders and card them through that ridiculous mess of hair on top of his head. They linger in the moment, eyes drifting, bodies brushing, before she exhales heavily.

"They had a sale on Edelman wedges." He nods like he knows exactly what she's talking about and he just might with the amount of time he spends watching the damn network. His body moves just the barest hint forward and her breath hitches, the back of her knuckles brushing over the soft material of his t-shirt. "A pair for under a hundred is a steal."

Her voice sounds breathy and she wants to step back and move closer in the same moment, press her lips against the soft skin above his –

_Jesus_.

She steps back and gulps at her wine, his heated stare following her as she grapples for the remote, unmuting the television so the overly-cheery announcers fill the awkward silence. His attention is easily diverted, however, when he notices what they're selling.

"Bloody hell, is that a four pack of ramekins?"

He saunters over to her bed and drops himself on it, spreading out immediately and tucking his hands behind his head. He acts like he belongs there and she feels a flame of irritation lick at her insides.

"Killian, no."

He arches an eyebrow and lifts his legs to his chest, slipping them under the blankets and burrowing himself down. "No, what?"

"Get out of my bed."

He pats the space next to him with a muted thump, nothing but his eyes peeking out from under the thick white comforter. "Get _in_ your bed."

She sips at her wine, resisting the urge to chug it down and reach for the bottle. "I am not getting into bed with you."

He rolls his eyes and leans up on his elbows. "Can't say I've heard that very much in my lifetime. Now please, come have a cuddle."

Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline and a laugh barks its way out of her mouth before she can help herself.

"A cuddle?" She moves closer to the bed and crawls on top of it, making sure that her glass of wine doesn't spill. It's a learned skill, drinking in bed, and it's one she has perfected over the past year. He watches her move with a bemused little grin as she settles in next to him (body pointedly on top of the covers, arms folded across her chest). "Didn't peg you for the cuddling type, Jones."

"I'm not, but apparently you are, or else you would not have come into bed." He wiggles his eyebrows with a smirk and she punches him in the arm. He flinches and laughs and she smiles into her glass.

They sit in companionable silence and it isn't as strange as it should be, having one of her players lying in bed with her. It's comfortable and warm and he does this excited little squirm next to her every time they bring something new out to sell on the program. It's cute, kind of, and she finds herself relaxing back into the headboard.

"Oh, we definitely need those." His excited voice perks up as they show off a Wolfgang Puck knife set and he reaches for his phone, seemingly dialing the number from memory. She is mildly surprised he doesn't have it on speed dial but her amusement turns to shock when he greets the teller by name.

"Hello, Teresa. How are you?" There is an excited squeal on the other end of the phone and he chuckles, flipping the remote idly in his hand. "Yes, yes, how is your daughter by the way? How did the recital go?"

Her mouth jaw drops as she openly stares at him and his eyes dart to her in confusion, narrowing slightly when he takes in her expression. A light blush climbs his cheeks and he scratches behind his ear with a shuffle underneath the thick covers, chatting away with the teller. He places his order and hangs up the phone, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

"Look Swan, little glass unicorns."

"I don't care about the unicorns. You know the woman who answers the phones?"

He scoffs lightly, tossing the remote and then catching it in his hand. "There are lots of people who answer the phones, Swan."

"I know that, but you _know_ her. You knew about her kid. That's – " A million words float through her head as he winces and braces himself for the blow – pathetic? Sweet? She settles on sad because how lonely must he be to do nothing but watch the Home Shopping Network and develop relationships with the receptionists who answer the phones. His string of bad behavior that preceded her arrival suddenly makes more sense and that same uneasy feeling is back. She knows something of running from feelings and burying your head in the sand.

"I know what it is, Emma. I don't need a reminder from you." He throws back the covers and stalks over to the mini bar, opening it up angrily and grabbing four little bottles. He comes back to the bed with a huff and messes with one of the tiny caps, cursing under his breath when he can't get it open. She sighs and pulls the bottle from his fidgeting fingers, opening it easily and handing it back.

"I was going to say sweet." He looks at her carefully while he sips at the small, ridiculous bottle. He winces and recoils, staring at the bottle in exaggerated horror.

"This is terrible." He takes another sip and shivers, but leans back further in the bed. He diverts his attention back to the television and thumbs at his phone. "I'm going to buy you some unicorns."

She looks at the unicorns in question and feels a shock of recognition, settling in her gut like a lead weight. "I don't want the unicorns."

"Of course you want the unicorns, they're beautiful and an excellent price." He starts to dial but she panics, wrenching the phone from his grasp and hurling it across the room. He stares at her with wide eyes.

"Alright, no unicorns then." He takes a pull of his tiny bottle and frowns when he realizes it's empty. She opens another for him without question and hands it over. He nods his thanks. "Care to explain, love?"

Her eyes dart down to his covered forearm. "Care to explain the tattoo?"

His body stills. "Fair point." He considers her for another moment before turning back to the television and she lets out a deep breath she didn't even know she was holding, landmine successfully avoided.

"I was in a car accident when I was sixteen." He mutters and her body flushes cold because his tone is hollow, broken, and she knows this isn't going to be anything good. He considers his next words carefully and his eyebrows dip low on his forehead, fingers twisting his mini bottle around and around. "The tattoo is for what I lost."

Wide blue eyes look up at her and it hits her like a punch to the gut, the _devastation_ she sees there. A humorless smirk twists his lips and he angles his head towards her. "Your turn."

Her heart thumps angrily in her chest as she remembers another glass unicorn, from so very long ago, and she swallows, hand shaking as she brings her wine glass to her lips. She hasn't thought of it in years – hasn't spoken of it for far longer – David really being the only one who even knows about that part of her life. But something about Killian's presence, the look in his eyes when he said _what I lost_ – he will understand and she knows it.

"I was in a foster home when I was six that had a unicorn like that." She considers her words much like he did and she can feel his gaze burning into the side of her head. "I was just playing and I thought – "

She shakes her head, chasing away the _old ghosts_ as he so aptly put it. "I broke it. My foster father wasn't very pleased. I'd rather not have a physical reminder of what followed in my possession. No unicorns."

The quiet stretches between them in endless waves and she feels it when he looks back at the television. "Alright," He says quietly and his voice is soft, understanding, and it causes something in her chest to shift. "No unicorns."

She blinks her eyes furiously to stop the burning because it aches – it always aches – so many things in her life combining into one big black hole that sucks her down and pulls her under. She takes a shaky breath and forces a smile when he perks up, sitting up on his elbows.

"But what about some dinosaur cookie cutters?"

She snorts. "I don't even cook."

-/-

She wakes slowly and carefully, mind blissfully hazy as she walks the web between sleep and awake, the light breeze from the storm raging outside fluttering the curtains draped over the window. It's still dark, the room quiet and still besides the hushed chatter on the television she left on, it's blue glow illuminating the room. She sighs and shifts down further in the bed, the warm comfort of the sheets and the plush bed pulling her back down into slumber.

She hasn't slept this well in _months_ and she is grateful for the wine – apparently able to work wonders when she's on the road.

A hand flexes on her waist and she freezes, eyes blinking open with a slight gasp. The bed shifts behind her and the hand slides further, wrapping around her waist and ghosting over her stomach, pulling her closer to the solid body behind her. His hot breath tickles her neck as he nuzzles down into her hair and he sighs - mumbled, incoherent words slipping through his lips.

She doesn't remember falling asleep with him, doesn't remember much past her fourth glass of wine and the warmth that swam through her head (gentle conversation, cleverly steered around anything of important and _hurt_, his rough laugh as she made a stupid joke, the lines around his eyes crinkling in delight). But she relaxes in his arms as he nudges her legs with his socked feet and it's _easy_ – letting her eyes slip shut again. She hasn't had this in far too long, this simple comfort of being _held_ and the selfish part of her easily subdues the fear churning in her gut, her exhaustion winning over in the end. She tucks her face into her pillow and leans her body back into his, sleep claiming her with a whispered sigh.

She will handle it in the morning.

But he's gone when she wakes, and she blushes with the thought that she may have imagined the whole thing. The tiny bottles lined up on the nightstand tell her different though (neurotic freak that he is), and the left side of her bed definitely smells like him (not that she dropped her face to the pillow, she did _not_). The window is closed and the comforter is pulled high around her neck and she smiles lightly, dropping back to the bed.

She can handle it later.

-/-

"I slept with Killian!" She blurts out. Mary Margaret practically tumbles over on her way back to the couch from the kitchen island and Emma immediately regrets both her choice of words and the way in which she shouted it at a heavily pregnant woman. But it's been bothering her, the fact that they _cuddled_ (he definitely was a cuddler, contrary to his statement indicating otherwise), combined with the fact that he hasn't even flirted in her direction since it happened, studiously avoiding any and all contact.

It doesn't bother her – it _shouldn't_ bother her.

(Especially since the media was now enamored with David. Apparently the way he swiveled his hips during their ridiculous rain delay response capturing the attention of ladies everywhere. Mary Margaret has an autographed print out on the fridge and it made Emma chuckle when she went for a glass of wine.)

"Pardon me?" Mary Margaret sinks down on the couch with eyes wide as saucers, cradling a bowl of popcorn.

"Not like –" She sighs and rubs at her temples. "Not like that. At the St. Louis game, after the rain delay. He came to my room and I don't know, I guess we fell asleep."

Mary Margaret eyes her suspiciously as she munches away on her snack. "Why was he in your room?"

Emma rolls her eyes and leans back against the couch. "Because he's an idiot and wouldn't leave me alone."

"But you let him in your room? In your bed?"

"I didn't let him do anything, he sort of just forced his way in."

"But you slept together?"

"We _fell_ asleep together. I didn't realize, I didn't know –" She huffs and reaches for her wine glass, distressed to find it empty already. She places it back down on the coffee table and rakes her fingers through her hair because she really needs to stop chugging wine to chase away the monsters. She blinks back to Mary Margaret and she softens considerably when she sees the look on Emma's face. Holding out the bowl of popcorn, she smiles gently.

"It's okay, Emma. To like him."

"I don't – "

Mary Margaret gives her a stern look and Emma shuts her mouth, taking a fist-full of buttery deliciousness.

"Killian is a good guy, contrary to what the media reports about him. He has a good heart." Mary Margaret tilts her head to the side slightly, considering Emma and her smile grows. "There is a lot about the two of you that is alike. I think you'll find that you have more in common than you know."

Emma thinks about the broken look in his eyes and the way in which his voice had gone flat, his demons rising to the surface in the blink of an eye. She thinks of the way his hands shook when he reached for the little bottle of liquor and how he had previously told her he couldn't sleep either – staying up late to watch people sell things on television just to feel connected to something.

She pops a kernel in her mouth. Mary Margaret flicks her attention back to the cheesy lifetime movie.

"Just a thought."

-/-

There is a package waiting on her desk when she arrives to the facility. It's bulky and large and when she tries to lift it to put it to the side, she actually struggles a bit. It doesn't take her long to work out that it's from the Home Shopping Network (because of course it is) and when she opens it, she can feel a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

It's a dehumidifier.

She stares at it for a long time and picks up the receipt that came with it. There is room for a personal note and she simultaneously groans and scoffs when she sees what's written.

_You snore. KJ_

She rolls her eyes and slides the box under her desk because he is actually an idiot, but still – she can't help the chuckle that slips through her lips.


	6. Chapter 5

_I'm so very thankful for all of your comments and messages – thank you for making writing so fun. It warms my heart every single time I get a little notification. Hope you enjoy! (We are wading into T territory with this one.)_

_Another update will be coming on Saturday, so keep that in mind with the ending of this chapter. _

_Also, Teresa ships it._

**Chapter 5**

When he was a boy, he craved physical contact – always climbing into bed with Liam in the early hours of the morning, tucking his small body under Liam's outstretched arm until he could bury his nose in the soft material of his t-shirt – the smell of the sea clinging to him even after he had turned in for the day.

When he found Milah, they were joined at the hip – fingers tangled together as they walked, his hand threading through her dark curls, his arm slung over her shoulder, folding her body neatly into his.

The press of skin against skin calmed the buzzing in his head and made him feel _wanted_ – alive and needed and connected to another human being. A pat on the shoulder as Liam passed him in the kitchen, a brush of Milah's nose against his cheek, his mother's gentle fingers as she adjusted his school tie – he _needed_ it.

And then everything changed (in a blur of frantic screaming and the terrible sound of metal against metal) and physical contact only made him feel _sick_ – the only touch he could bear one muted by alcohol, numerous women floating in and out of the drunken haze that descended on his life.

_Crashing and screaming and blood – god, so much blood._

A clap of thunder yanks him from the reaches of sleep and he startles awake, fingers clamping down on warm skin in reflex. The body pressed up against his chest stirs, soft whine lodged in the base of her throat as her hips shift and push back into his. Blonde hair tumbles over her shoulder with the movement – honey and cinnamon and _woman _ghosting over him as she stills again.

His fingers brush over the bare skin of her hip where her shirt has ridden up absentmindedly, eyes blinking rapidly in the soft light of the television. It takes him a moment to realize he is in Emma Swan's _bed_, and he can't help the slow grin that curls his lips.

He feels grounded (content and _warm_ and a thousand other things with her body pressed to his, legs tangled together beneath the sheets) – and the realization causes a clamp to squeeze against his heart, panic rising thick and fast.

He pulls back gently and when she rolls over into the warmth he just vacated, crease folding between her brows, his fingers itch with the need to smooth it. She looks different in sleep (no more relaxed he notes with a snort under his breath) and he wonders what she is dreaming of as her eyes flicker behind closed lids. The warning bells sound like an alarm in his head but still, he can't leave right away. He lingers in the stillness of the room, drags the blanket higher over her shoulders, smiling softly when she sighs happily (the way her hand clenches and unclenches towards him causes his heart to beat in double time).

He shuffles across the carpet and flicks off the tv, sliding the window gently shut as the summer storm continues to rage outside. He's finding excuses to stay in this little bubble, he knows it, but when she shifts again in the too-big bed, he acknowledges it's time to go.

(He doesn't know how he would explain it if she woke up – him standing above her practically leering in the dark hotel room as she sleeps. He's a lot of things but he is not _that guy_ – thank you very much.)

He lets the door click quietly closed behind him, finding his way back to his room in the early-morning quiet of the hotel. Even housekeeping hasn't yet begun their rounds and he is infinitely grateful he doesn't have to explain away his perfectly PG walk of shame.

When he falls back into his bed, it feels _off_ and _cold_ and he has the need for _touch_ for the first time in a very long time.

-/-

The need stays with him, burning just under his skin and thrumming through his blood. He can _feel _it just as strong as when she was curled up against him and the fear gnaws at his insides and claws at his throat. Killian Jones is not a man who _cuddles_.

He fucks.

He takes what he needs and then disappears – no strings, no connections, no emotions. And it has worked out just fine in his favor, the need for something _more_ easily pushed down into the hollow recesses of his chest because _more_ wasn't something he deserved.

Still isn't.

He glares at his glove as he lounges on the thin bench in the locker room, trainers and coaches moving around him in a blur as everyone prepares for the game. Robin snorts as he adjusts the straps that hold on his gear, twisting his shoulders back and forth.

"What's the glove done now?"

He directs his glare to the catcher. "Anyone ever tell you you're a moron?"

He rolls his eyes and slips the chest cover off, throwing it down on the bench with a loud slap. "And did anyone ever tell you that you're a moody ponce?"

He sighs and shoots a very _un-gentlemanly_ gesture towards his teammate, chuckling lightly when Robin's hearty laughter fills the space between them. Robin plops down next to him and bumps him with his shoulder.

"You alright?"

He scratches at his neck with a frustrated grunt because he isn't sure _what_ he is. Falling asleep with Swan had been a mistake, that much he knows, but he still feels _bothered_ by it. She's getting under his skin in the worst of ways and while he had been intrigued by it at first (her fire, her drive – the way her eyes flash bright and powerful when he says something inappropriate), now he just wants it to _go away._

"You like her, don't you?" When he gives Robin a blank look, he huffs and rolls his eyes. "Emma."

The statement rings oddly true so naturally he pushes back against it. "I'm not a child with a crush, I don't _like_ –"

"You _like_ someone?" David chooses that moment to swing into their section of the locker room and Killian hastily shoots Robin a pleading look. He doesn't need Dave thinking he has feelings for his pseudo-sister. He is oddly protective over Emma and the last thing he wants is a black eye because David thinks he has a desire to bed the blonde.

Which he definitely doesn't.

Not at all.

Nope.

Robin hums lowly as his eyes dart across Killian's face. "He does indeed."

Killian gives him a short nod when he fails to mention the woman in question and he is infinitely grateful for Dave's lack of observation skills outside of the baseball diamond.

"Well that's new." David gives him an appraising look as he leans against the lockers in front of him.

"I don't like anyone." He grumbles and he feels like a petulant teenager, being interviewed by his parents about his first crush. David would definitely be the mother hen – _definitely_.

"It's alright to have feeling for someone." David states and _seven hells_, this is mortifying. He averts his gaze to the floor and scratches behind his ear. When David speaks again, his voice is quiet and honest. "You deserve good things too, Killian."

He is suddenly reminded of David when they first met - when he was andy and hurt and broken and David had taken him under his wing - giving him a family and a home. He stares up at his friend with a sigh and tries to force a cocky grin.

He wishes he could believe him.

-/-

He avoids her for the rest of the trip, sticking to the back of the plane when they board for back home. He sinks down low in his seat and when his eyes catch a flash of blonde, he turns fully to watch her converse with her assistant, head thrown back in laughter, pink lips spread wide in a rare but genuine grin.

_Shit._

He definitely likes her.

-/-

He sends her a dehumidifier because he is a moron and apparently left his common sense in the hotel room in St. Louis.

(He calls Teresa pretty much immediately after he orders it and tries to take it back but the bloody woman is stubborn and haughtily tells him this is all for his own good before hanging up the phone.)

-/-

The annual family picnic is a tradition and he likes going because the beer is free and the food is good and he very much enjoys taunting David during the softball game later in the afternoon. Plus Roland practically begged him to go during their annual Monday movie night and he was helpless against those dimples.

"Uncle Killy," He bites his tongue against the nickname because it irritates him to no end but – _the dimples_. Roland pulls on his hand as he leads him to the moonbounce. "Can we bounce?"

"No, Roland!" Robin's voice comes bellowing across the field and Roland turns sly eyes up to Killian, jutting out his bottom lip as he tilts his little head to the side - _smart little lad_. Killian grins and picks him up under his arms, throwing him high in the air before deftly catching him, striding over to the entrance of the bounce castle.

"Let us bounce, shall we?"

He can practically hear Robin's sigh of disapproval but it's quickly drowned out by the happy squeals of Roland as they bounce together in the miniature house. He is careful not to stomp on any toes and be wary of the other children yet he somehow manages to get tackled in a flurry of little hands and feet – the tiny monsters rising up against him in a mutiny.

He rolls out of the inflatable with an exaggerated stagger, clutching his chest as the children shout out to him from behind the gated strings of the entrance. Roland comes tumbling out after, hair askew and breathless with laughter and Killian swings him over his shoulder.

"Back to your father, you rotten scoundrel."

He spies Emma on his way to drop Roland off, tucked away off to the side near the impromptu batting cages Regina rented for the occasion - more of a pitching machine squared off with emergency tape, really - twirling a bat between her fingers. He makes sure Roland is safe and sound with Regina before heading in her direction, laughing under his breath as she falls into a _ridiculous_ hitting stance, her swing missing by a good foot, the thud of the ball into the mat proof of her failure.

"Bloody hell, Swan. You're trying to hit the ball not chop down a tree." He grins when she turns and glares, once again focusing on the machine.

"Did the dehumidifier alter your center of balance?"

"Go away."

She swings again and huffs, straightening her back and firming her shoulders. He rolls his eyes and takes a step forward. "You're doing it wrong." He murmurs and his fingers graze her elbow, lifting slightly.

"Lift this up." He presses himself against her back without thinking about it and is suddenly reminded of the feel of her in his arms as they lay together, her body so warm and small in his embrace. She stiffens at the same time he does and tilts her face to the side slightly.

Her nose is just inches from grain this cheek and he feels the irrational urge to surge forward, capture those plump lips with -

"What else?" She breathes after a moment's hesitation.

He swallows hard and lets his fingers drift over the exposed skin of her arm (because he is a man who recognizes an advantageous situation, after all), pushing her hand up slightly.

"You've got to grip it tighter, darling." He leans forward so that he's completely wrapped around her from behind as she scoffs.

"Naturally." She rolls her eyes but he can see the smirk flirting with her lips and he grins.

"Use your hips," He touches her lightly above her waist and angles her body slightly. "To power your movements."

His hand drifts down further and he pats the bare skin of her thigh exposed by her shorts. "Spread your legs a bit, love." And suddenly this situation is a lot less funny and a lot more - _heated_.

Lust blossoms low in his belly as her breathing quickens, her back pressing back the slightest bit into his chest. His fingertips graze her leg again and he breathes out, lingering for a second more before stepping back.

The ball is pitched from the machine.

She misses.

Terribly.

He snickers behind her and shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts. She shoots him another glare but he's pleased to see the flush high on her cheekbones.

"You better hope I'm on your team, Swan. Perhaps I can help you score."

She rolls her eyes as he wiggles his eyebrows and slides his tongue along his lip, dropping the bat to the grass.

Regina chooses that moment to start the annual match, dividing the players and front office evenly between teams. The only catch is that players aren't allowed to play their professional positions and Killian ends up catcher, squatting in the dust behind the frisbee that signifies home plate.

His knees are aching and he doesn't know how Robin does this for a full blasted game, but his tune abruptly changes when Swan comes up to bat. Down low like this, he has the perfect view to -

"Stop staring at my ass." She mutters with her back to him, fingering the edge of the bat. She looks over her shoulder at him with a knowing look and he just shrugs his shoulders, adjusting his backwards cap.

"Just appreciating the view, love."

She sighs and shifts her attention to Robin on the pitcher's mound, falling effortlessly into a graceful and flawless hitters stance. He gapes at her for a second because she definitely didn't need his help earlier (which means she was _flirting_ - letting him touch her and maneuver her in his arms), but Robin chooses that moment to pitch the ball and her bat makes contact with a crack - the ball shooting high over left field. She takes off immediately, splintering off into a light jog as the ball goes over the boundary for a home run - her team cheering loud behind him.

She rounds third and jogs towards him, hopping onto home plate with a satisfied grin.

She leans up close to his face as he stares down at her, eyes alight with mischief, the light sheen of sweat on her neck making him think terrible things.

"Looks like I can score just fine by myself." Her voice is all breathy and blatant innuendo and his brain immediately conjures an image of Emma Swan gloriously spread out on her back - bare to his hungry eyes, chest thrust up as her hand disappears between her thighs - doing exactly what she is alluding to with desperate whimpers lodged in her throat.

His breath hitches and his fingers clench at his sides. Her smirk grows into something smug and hungry as she watches his face change and when David swoops behind her, whooping in victory and whipping her away, he breathes out in relief.

The _minx_.

-/-

The trucks of people cleaning up the stadium from the day are long since gone, a pleasant silence descending over the now empty field. The high walls of the stadium block out the noise from the outside world, creating an oasis of quietly buzzing bugs and the tattering of flags in the wind. He closes his eyes and stretches out his arms as he lays in left outfield, letting the sinking summer sun warm his skin.

"Are you alive?"

He blinks open his eyes to see Emma standing above him, confused and radiant in the melting summer day - golden rays of light bouncing off her fair skin.

"Aye." He says quietly. "Just enjoying the magic."

She shifts back and forth above him, seemingly weighing a decision. She chooses to sit, after a moment, and when she lays back in the grass next to him, her hair brushes the bare skin of his forearm.

"Magic?"

He hums his agreement, gesturing lightly to the empty stadium around them. "There's something magical about being in a place like this by yourself. You can feel the history - feel the expectation and admiration. Magic."

He can feel her gaze on the side of his face, but he blunders on, staring at the corner of the scoreboard above him. "This is the part where Liam would always say, _if you build it, they will come_."

She snorts. "David loves that movie."

He chuckles because he is so _very_ aware of that fact. "Aye, that he does."

They're quiet again and he thinks about bringing up the dehumidifier - apologizing for being an idiot - but she hasn't commented on their stolen night yet and he doesn't want to overwhelm her.

He sees the way she shies away from him, the guarded look in her eyes like a caged animal. He isn't willing to chase her away quite yet.

"Who is Liam?"

The soft spoken question hits him like a punch to the gut and he bites the inside of his lip. "He was my brother."

The silence between them is loaded now and he hates the way his voice shakes under the weight of it. It's been years and still -

Fingers caress the tattoo on his arm and when he looks over at her, she's leaning up on an elbow, frowning with something that looks suspiciously like understanding.

"The accident?"

He nods and pulls his arm back because it's too much, her touching him like that while talking about _this_. If she's offended by his reluctance, she doesn't show it, instead falling back beside him.

"I was married." She states quietly and he whips his head so fast, he hears a protesting crack in his neck. But she pays him no mind, just continues to frown at the sky. "In Kansas City, I was fired and then a week later my husband left me."

She barks a humorless laugh and turns to him with a shrug. At the obvious question in his eyes, she gives him a broken smile.

"You showed me yours, I show you mine."

The same little crease appears between her eyebrows and this time he doesn't resist the urge, reaching out and gently smoothing it with his thumb.

"The man is a fool, Emma."

A sad smile lifts her lips and she scoffs, the puff of air hot against his wrist. He lets his fingers slide along the curve of her cheek, mapping her skin with his touch.

"You don't even know him." She replies, the barest hint of a waver audible in her quiet whisper. But she doesn't flinch away from his touch, instead pressing her cheek more firmly into his palm.

"I know what he gave up." He says firmly. "That's enough."

Her eyes widen slightly with a sharp inhale of breath, the air between them suddenly humming to life with unspoken tension. Her fingers wrap around the hand pressed against her face, but she doesn't move it - just lets her hand linger over his.

"Killian." She breathes out his name like a benediction and it washes over him, tugging him down, down, _down_ until there is nothing but her - splayed out in the green grass, hair spread about her like a halo.

His eyes dart to her lips despite his best intentions not to. She's just _so close _and he can _feel _it when she shifts in the grass, tilting on her side.

"Emma." He replies and he nudges his nose against hers, watching as her eyes flutter shut, free hand creeping forward to press lightly against his chest. His heart thumps out a heavy staccato against his ribcage and he's never felt a pull this strong - the _need_ to kiss her so consuming it's making him dizzy.

She tilts her face up towards his and he lets his fingers slide to the back of her head, carding through those glorious golden strands and anchoring there.

_God_, it's like he can taste her already - the soft exhale against his lips like coffee and honey and -

"Hey!" She pulls back from him with a shriek, falling onto her back and wrenching herself from his grasp. He turns to find Leroy, one of the stadium's maintenance men, hovering at the edge of the field. "You aren't supposed to be here!"

Without waiting for an answer, Leroy turns and pushes against the large power switch, plunging the stadium into cooling darkness. The bright bulbs around the stadium dim with a heaving sigh, the glowing embers fading slowly.

"I should go." She pushes herself up from the grass and he sits up with a frown, watching as she forces a shaking hand through her hair. Her shoulders are tense and her face is drawn and the dimming lights cast shadows over her porcelain skin.

"Emma, wait -"

"No, I'm sorry. I'm just-" Her eyes meet his for the briefest of seconds and he can see the moments her walls go flaring back up, the green hardening into something resolute and unflinching. She turns towards the dugout and shoves her hands in her pockets. "I'm going to go."

She's striding away from him before he even has a chance to say another word and he watches her go, the voice in his head pleasantly reminding him that he doesn't get to have nice things.

He flops back to the ground with a dramatic sigh and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees spots. When he opens them again, the lights are completely out and he is completely alone.

-/-

The crowd is chanting loud in his ears and he can't seem to block it out, the sweat beading on his neck and dropping down, his skin itchy and hot underneath the afternoon sun. He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet and stretches down, willing his back to stop with it's angry protests because he needs to _focus_, just needs to block everything out.

Sad eyes and pretty pink lips drift unbidden through his mind and his irritation only grows because he _can't have_ and he _doesn't deserve _and _he wants._

He watches as Walsh approaches the plate and fight the urge to roll his eyes because he's _sure_ the cameras are focused on him for that exact reaction - his distaste for Walsh and his in return a popular storyline for the hungry media animals. ("Gentleman, Killian." She reminded his brusquely as she passed him during pre-game interviews, eyes decidedly fixed on her notepad.) Walsh tips his head in his direction with a little smirk as he brings his bat up and he growls under his breath, not missing the look David shoots him from a couple feet away.

Arrogant asshole, always thinking _so much_ of himself.

He braces down low as David winds back, eyes darting to Robin as he makes the call. Walsh's eyes narrow in concentration and _bloody hell, _how he wants to just smack the smug look right off -

-/-

He can hear the muffled shouting of David, the calming tones of Victor as he blinks open heavy eyes. Everything is blurry and moving too fast and he's being tugged under by the pain - pounding loud and strong in his ears.

A soft hand slides into his and he tries to grip it tighter, knot their fingers together and just _come back _but he can't - his body too heavy, the light _too much_.

He tries to say something, _anything_, but he is _tired_.

There is blonde hair, a flash of worry, and then there is nothing at all.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Blue eyes, hooded and dark as his nose nudged against hers – his body warm, so _warm_, as his fingers grazed her skin (calloused from his glove and rough, she idly wondered what it would feel like sliding up her thigh, pulling her leg higher up against his waist). He had exhaled a sharp breath against her lips, her name falling like a curse and a plea, fingers clenching, searching as she _finally _gave in, tilting her head up –

_Fuck_.

She stares down at her now ruined latte, coffee spreading on the floor of the press box slowly – a little pool of mocha heaven being absorbed by the terrible grey carpet. She pinches the bridge of her nose and grabs a stack of napkins off the corner desk (she's never been more grateful of Sidney's dedication to the food selection in the press box, really) and tosses them down on the puddle, picking up the now empty cup with a wounded sigh.

Just what she needed.

"I'll get you another." Ruby supplies and she's about to argue with her when the brunette goes bounding off in the direction of the coffee cart, red heels clicking methodically. She scoops up the mass of napkins and the empty cup and deposits them in the trashcan, mind inevitably being drawn back to the other night.

She almost kissed him.

She _wanted_ to kiss him.

It was all sorts of _not okay_ – no matter what Mary Margaret said. She couldn't go around falling asleep in hotel beds and making out with the _players_ for christ's sake.

_Just the one_, her mind helpfully whispers and she resists the very real urge to slam her head into the desk. It's too much and not enough all in the same breath – her mind completely muddled and her heart –

Well, her heart is another matter entirely.

For the first time in an entire year, she feels _something_. And if the way he looks at her is any indication, the way he _touches_ her – soft and lingering with an underlying heat that promises her dangerous things like how he would feel above her and around her, moving with –

Not helping.

Plus, she reminds herself gently, she doesn't have the best record on reading people – the entire thing with Neal leaving her shocked and breathless and _broken_.

_The man is a fool, Emma_.

She snorts and yanks out her desk chair, throwing herself bodily into her work.

She's the fool.

-/-

She keeps her eyes glued to her laptop for a majority of the game, monitoring the media chatter and responding to inquiries. Her mind is muddled and the monotony of work is a welcome distraction, the rhythm of stats and play-by-plays overriding everything else. She briefly snaps at two of the reported from the _Chronicle_ because they are little too exuberant with their chortling and she is _not_ in the mood today. Ruby snickers beside her as she settles back in her seat, huffing and typing away angrily.

But when she does look up, her gaze immediately lands on him, her gut twisting uncomfortably because his shoulders are tense and his face is tight and it's obvious he is uneasy. His relationship with Walsh is a popular story with the media, and it's become obvious through the course of the game that he genuinely hates the guy. He was out of sorts before the game even started, his movements awkward and jerky as he made the pre-game interview rounds. He had barely spared her a lingering glance when she swung past him, but it had been hard to tell as she was intent on avoiding _him_ – face buried in her notepad as she urged him to be a gentleman.

_Stupid_, god she is so _stupid._

She sighs and scratches at her hair as Walsh strides towards home plate, all cool confidence and lean muscle and she feels a flare of irritation on Killian's behalf. She spies him bending at the waist out of the corner of her eye and when he straightens back up, his face is plastered across the jumbotrons. His eyes are dark as his frown deepens and he pulls his bill down lower, settling into a ready stance as Walsh does the same.

She turns her attention back to her computer screen because she definitely does _not_ need to be studying his face on the large screens, doesn't need to be worrying if he's alright, tracing the line of his jaw and slope of his nose –

She hears the familiar crack of contact and then Ruby grabs her forearm, red nails digging in, a stilted gasp slipping from her lips and seemingly being echoed by the entire stadium.

"Ruby, what-"

Ruby just shakes her head with a horrified look on her face and Emma looks to the field, brows knitting when she spies Walsh jogging to first. She doesn't see what's got everyone up in their seats until –

_Jesus_.

Her eyes are drawn to him as they _always_ are and she feels a seeping coldness push at her chest, slowly spreading outward as she takes in his prone form.

He's face down in the infield and he isn't moving.

"Line drive." Ruby mutters. Emma turns quickly and Ruby looks at her, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip. "It hit him right in the head, Emma."

David is already crouched down low at this side and Robin is moving towards them, throwing off his facemask and breaking into a light jog. Him and David exchange murmurs as Killian continues to lay motionless between them and then Robin stands, shouting something towards the dugout.

"Victor!"

His voice carries because the stadium is silent – forty-six thousand people struck terribly quiet as the game comes to an abrupt halt. The only thing she can hear is the blood rushing through her head and the mad thumping of her heart.

The jumbotron at the far end of the field is zoomed in on Killian and she watches as David shifts, blocking his face from view. She is infinitely glad for it as Victor and his team rush onto the field, reaching for her cellphone and punching in the number with shaking hands.

The other end picks up and she doesn't even wait for a greeting. "Take him off the jumbotron." She seethes and Broadcast is damn lucky she is nowhere near them. "Get crowd reaction or roll a highlight reel, but take him off or I swear to god you won't work another day."

She hangs up and Ruby stands next to her, the both of them leaning forward to get a better look at the scene down below. The video screen switches to the generic pre-roll that floats during pre-game and she nods.

"What do we do?" Ruby asks quietly.

Emma watches as Victor leans down close to Killian's head and her entire body tenses. The fear in her chest is wholly consuming and goes well beyond general concern for a player. She feels it in her gut - like she was hit herself – entire body _aching_ as she waits with bated breath.

He can't –

She can't –

She exhales when she sees his legs move – sluggish and slow – but movement all the same. She picks up her cellphone and turns from the window, heading towards the Owner's Box as she forces down all the feelings. Now is _not the time_ – when he is laying out on the field, media jostling for a better view like vultures circling.

"We work."

Everything is a blur as her and Ruby meet with Regina, draft a team statement, and organize the media. She doesn't have time to _feel _and for that she is grateful. The umpires call the game as Killian is carted off the field (David throws a towel over his face as he's strapped to the medical board and she swears she is going to get him the best birthday present ever this year – all that PR talk she mutters about at dinner sticking somewhere in that head of his) and she tries not to throw up as she stares at his limp and retreating body. He moves his hand every so often, but he still looks out of it and if Victor's grim frown is anything to go by – it's not good.

She and Ruby make their way down to the press room, the media loud and boisterous even from the stairwell.

"Can you handle them for a few minutes? I want to check in the locker room first." Ruby nods and they split off as she takes a left and Emma turns down right, walking down the isolated hallway that leads to the locker room. When she pushes through the door, her heart sinks.

The team is unusually silent, men sitting in front of their lockers with their heads in their hands. A couple look up when she enters, but for the most part they just continue to stare at the ground, lost in their own worlds. She makes eye contact with Jefferson and he angles his head towards the back trainer's room, whipping off his cap and throwing it roughly into his locker.

She'd dealt with player injuries in Kansas City, seen all manner of grotesque and horrible situations as an intern in college. But nothing really prepared her for the sight of Killian Jones, pale and listless against the table.

David looks up when she enters and sighs, striding forward and pulling her roughly into his arms. He's shaking, she can feel it in his shoulders, and she knows this hug is much more for him than her. Her eyes dart to Robin over his shoulder and Robin sighs, leaning against the wall with crossed arms.

"How's he doing?"

Killian groans and shifts on the training table and Victor puts a hand on his shoulder, keeping him relaxed and calm. Blue eyes flutter open for the briefest of moments as she approaches but they are closed again before she can get a good look at him.

"A concussion, at the least. He's talking –"

"But not making any sense." David finishes. "He keeps muttering about leaving his SodaStream and something about unicorns."

Emma snorts despite the gravity of the situation as she stares down at him. His hair is stuck up in clumps and she wants to run her fingers through it, push it back as she scratches her nails against his scalp. He looks calm and peaceful (despite the bruise already forming over his left eye) and she tells herself he's just resting, the double-time tempo of her heart not calming in the least.

"Home Shopping Network." She mutters in explanation and David stills next to her. She peers up at him and his eyebrows furrow, like he's just figured out some great secret, but Killian chooses that moment to move – his fingers brushing over her hand.

"Emma?" His voice is weak and his eyes can't seem to lock on her so she twists her fingers with his, holding his hand tighter. He squeezes back briefly but then he's out again, a soft mutter about thousand-thread-count sheets whispered under his breath.

"I think he will be alright. But I've called the hospital just in case. We have a transport coming."

"Alright." She whispers, and when she finally looks up from Killian to Victor, she notices Robin smiling softly at her. It's reassuring and understanding and anchors in her chest, warming her slightly in this whole terrible shit-hole of a situation. She tilts her head towards David. "You'll go with him?"

"Of course." She steps back and David rubs her shoulder. "I'll text you and let you know."

-/-

She issues the statement on behalf of the team and she's proud of herself when her voice only cracks once. They stay late trying to do damage control and she does her best to make sure footage of him knocked out on the field isn't leaked. But it's only a matter of time, and social media is a bitch, so she isn't surprised when she flicks on the tv, finally home, and the reporter on ESPN is talking about it.

_A harrowing moment at PNC Park today, when Pirates shortstop Killian Jones was struck by a line drive –_

She collapses back onto the couch as footage from earlier in the day rolls – Killian warming up, smiling with David and Robin - toeing off her shoes and tucking her feet underneath her on the couch. She probably should have gotten her bottle of wine on the way in - because if any day called for it, today certainly does – but the footage switches to the moment he was hit and she gasps, watching as he drops to the field.

It slices through her in a hot lash and tears well in her eyes as they show it again, slower, the ball making contact with his forehead. The anxiety catches up with her as she pulls in a narrow breath, her phone buzzing in her lap.

_He's alright. Being released tomorrow._

She drops her phone to the table and finally lets herself cry.

-/-

He's placed on the 15-day disabled list two days later, more of a precaution than a necessity, and she breathes a sigh of relief as she forwards the injury report to Ruby. It could have been much worse – _it could have killed him_, she thinks with a shiver – and she lets her thumb linger over his name.

He hasn't called.

Not that she expected him to. If anything, she should have called him. She definitely thought about it enough, turning over in her bed (remembering his arm slung over her waist, his breath hot on her shoulder) and grabbing for her phone. But she didn't because she couldn't.

An almost-kiss and flirty banter doesn't make you _important_ to someone, especially when the person doing the flirting is notorious playboy Killian Jones. She isn't anything to him and she has to just deal with it, put these feelings on the back burner and focus on her job.

Her second chance.

She's so wrapped up in her mantra of _ you do not have feelings for Killian Jones, you do not have feelings for Killian Jones_ that she almost runs straight into him as she pushes into the locker room – a stack of papers balanced in her arms for Victor to go through. It's way after hours, the complex practically empty. Except not – apparently.

He steadies her with two hands on her upper arms and when she meets his gaze for the first time in _days_, she feels her shoulders relax and heart flutter.

_Shit_, she _definitely_ has feelings for Killian Jones.

The relief at seeing him upright and conscious is short-lived, however, when he steps back quickly like she's burned him. He's got quite the black eye going but it does nothing to detract from his appearance. In fact, it only makes him look more rugged, more dangerous, and she feels her stomach flip the longer she gazes at him.

"Hey." She stutters weakly and she wants to climb into one of the lockers – bury herself in the pile of uniforms because _why the hell does she sound like a teenage girl_.

He scratches at the back of his head and as he turns to his locker, she notices the duffle by his feet.

"Hey." He responds in a clipped tone and she frowns.

"How are you –"

"I don't want to talk about it, Emma."

The sheer _dismissal_ in his voice makes her pause. "Talk about what?"

He scoffs and stills in his locker for a moment before angrily grabbing at a t-shirt and shoving it in his bag. "How I _feel_ – I've bloody well had enough of it the past couple days and I'd like a respite."

She shuffles back and forth because she doesn't know how to handle _this_ Killian Jones, cold and removed and _mean_.

She doesn't know what she did.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you're okay. I was worried about you."

His shoulders tense and he turns to her slowly, eyes dark and angry as she takes a half step back. "You were worried." He smiles but it's _wrong_ and she feels her heart stutter in a completely different way. "Delightful, shall we add this conversation to the list of things we never speak of again? Alongside us sharing a bed and our moment in the outfield?"

Her mouth opens and closes several times because she doesn't have an answer for that. She can't tell him why she's hesitant to acknowledge those things (_she_ isn't enough – she is never enough) because he will just go running in the opposite direction. And as desperately as she wants to believe she isn't ready to feel something for someone else – she still wants him around.

She's selfish.

She likes the way he looks at her – the smile that lights up his face and the way his eyes twinkle.

Not like this.

"That's what I thought." He takes her silence as an affirmation and continues packing his locker, turning his back to her once again.

"Where are you going?"

Her quiet statement is barely uttered in the space between them before he's turning, striding towards her and marching her backwards until her back is pressed against another locker – Robin's, she thinks –the perusal of her surroundings cut short when he leans forward, arms caging her in – spice and salt twisting around her in the heady scent of him.

"Where do you think I'm going, Emma?" His voice is shaking with his restraint and she sees the pain flash in his eyes. "I'm on the disabled list. I can't play baseball, I cannot be around the only friends I have, I have a headache the size of bloody Manhattan near constantly and I can't even drown my sorrows as I am accustomed." He leans forward until his nose is practically brushing hers and she places her hands on his chest, whether to hold him back or brace herself she doesn't know. He continues on undeterred. "The only things I have left are being taken away from me."

"It's only for fifteen days." She whispers. "And then everything will be fine."

"Aye?" He tilts his head to the side in a slightly condescending manner. "What am I to do with myself in the meantime?"

His lips twist into a frown and it hits her suddenly, his level of _hurt_.

"I have nothing." He whispers.

The anger leaves him in a rush and she sees the lost boy inside of him, blue eyes filling with pain and insecurity. She sees a reflection of _herself_ and a sudden wave of bravery rises from deep within her – some secret well untouched until this moment.

Her hand shakes as she raises it carefully, pressing it against the warm skin of his neck. His body shudders, pulse jumping beneath her palm, but she holds him steady.

"You could –" Her eyes search his, wide and open and willing him to see. "You could have something?"

She ends on a question because she still isn't sure of herself – of how to do _this_.

He searches her face like he's looking for an answer and then slowly, his hand cups her jaw. She leans into his touch like she did the night in the field and he presses forward, nose nudging against her own. His breath puffs against her lips and he holds himself there, giving her the space to move, giving her the choice.

It's the hesitation that does her in, her fingers gripping his shirt and hauling him against her.

Their lips meet in a clash and he inhales sharply through his nose, body tensing as they freeze against one another. She presses her lips to his more firmly and slides her fingers against his skin, the pounding in her ears drowning everything else out – the rush of his lips against hers causing her blood to swim and rush.

She feels like she's falling – body in a swirling haze.

She pulls back and stares up at him, their lips grazing as her fingers unclench from his shirt. She suddenly feel unsure, his lack of response unsettling. Maybe she misread, maybe she –

And then suddenly _he _is the one moving, hand dropping from the wall by her head to anchor on her hip, pulling her up and into him as he presses his mouth to hers. He doesn't hesitate to suck her bottom lip roughly between his own and her body hums, fingers anchoring in his hair and tilting – his nose pressed against her cheek, his scruff rough against her skin.

She'd never felt like _this_, not even with –

Thoughts of other men quickly leave her mind as he takes a strong step forward, pressing her roughly against the locker. She gasps and his tongue slides against hers – wet and languid and the moan that leaves her mouth is completely mortifying. But he seems to enjoy it as he presses against her tighter, an answering whimper lodged in his throat. He kisses her like he's consuming her and she needs _more_ – her fingers blindly anchoring in the collar of his shirt, brushing at the bare skin beneath.

He groans and then she feels his fingers at the hem of his shirt, hesitating briefly before she nips at his lip. He growls into her mouth and then his palm is against bare skin, her back arching at the contact.

A door slams somewhere far off and they both freeze, lips pressed together, heaving breaths panted between them. He pulls back slightly, hand removing itself from the back of her shirt and anchoring on her hip.

He presses his forehead against hers and cups her face with his palms. "Please, don't run from me."

He lingers a second longer and then pulls himself fully back, giving her space to adjust the hem of her sweater just as the door to the locker room swings open. One of the maintenance men bustles in with a vacuum, stopping short when he sees the pair of them. He nods and retreats quickly and Emma looks back to Killian, smiling slightly at the smudged line of lipstick on his bottom lip.

She drags her thumb against it and he gives her a small grin.

"I won't."

-/-

She makes it home before she panics, the fear crushing even as the ghost of his kiss brands itself in her memory.

-/-

Robin is officially fifteen minutes late for the charity dinner with the big wigs and if she doesn't produce a star player _immediately_, she is so very screwed. It's unlike Robin to not show and she angrily dials his number for the eighteenth time.

He doesn't answer, of course.

"Robin, if you aren't here in ten seconds, I'm going to –"

"Going to what, love?"

She turns with the phone still pressed against her ear, jaw dropping slightly when she sees him leaning casually against the wall. He's dressed to the nines in a fitted tux and she can't help it when her eyes trail over his biceps, the jacket doing _wonders_ for his body. He smirks at her and she closes the phone with a huff as he pushes off the wall.

"You wore red." He says quietly as he continues to crowd her space, forcing her to take a step back even as he presses forward. It's just like the locker room except this time he's very pleased with himself and the hot blush that is rising across her cheekbones (that he most certainly did not cause – _damnit_).

"Where's Robin?"

"Not pleased to see me?" He tugs on one of her curls and dips his head down to her ear. "I didn't want to take a chance on you running, love. I'm here to convince you to give me a chance."

Her eyes flutter shut at the _promise_ in his words and he leans back, smiling down at her.

"Now, let us entertain some donors, yes?"

His grin is wide and his suit is fitted and _god damnit_ – she never really stood a chance.


	8. Chapter 7

_I apologize for the delay, the finale ruined my life. Also, I haven't written these two goons in a bit so I am very sorry if it doesn't live up to expectation._

**_Rated M_**_ for some shenanigans, if you're catching what I'm pitching._

**Chapter 7**

"This is not-" She cuts off when he noses forward, fingers lightly gripping her waist through her cocktail dress. They are still tucked away in the little room off of the main lobby and it's inappropriate on so many levels. If anyone saw - any of the hundreds of corporate donors, or the media, or a fan, or an idiot with a cell phone -

"This is not what we should be doing."

He chuckles, low and dark and she feels it echo in her stomach, twisting and curling with a ferocious heat.

"On the contrary, lass." She rolls her eyes at his very pirate turn of phrase. Idiot. "This is exactly what we should be doing."

She sways into his touch, closes her eyes and breathes in - and then promptly snaps out of it. She pushes against him hard but he remains glued to her side, invading her space as usual. "No, what you _should be_ doing is charming the pants off of donors and making our organization look good." She pokes him hard in the chest and he pouts.

"But what if I want to charm the pants off of you?"

He catches her hand in a snicker as she raises it to smack against him, fingers caressing. She rolls her eyes, even as a hot blush climbs her cheeks.

"You're an idiot." She seethes.

He leans closer, nose brushing hers. "You like it."

-/-

"Go out with me." He leans against the bar as she waits for her cocktail (god, how she needs one) and she huffs, tapping her fingers against the countertop. The bartender shoots her a look and she returns it with a death glare, silently encouraging him to _mind his own business, thank you very much_.

"Not the time, not the place." She mutters.

"And when exactly is the right time, hm?" He shuffles closer, fingers brushing against the skin of her arm. Goosebumps raise is his wake and _ugh_ – like he needs the freaking confirmation. "When_won't_ you be running from me?"

She meets his gaze, the blue of his eyes oddly serious and just a bit sad. He's still got quite the bruise marring his features, the edges of it turning a sickly yellow, and she's reminded just how close she was to losing him.

Her breath stutters in her chest. "I –"

"Jones!" One of the donors joins them and they spring apart – a guilty frown twisting her lips, an annoyed grimace on his. "Regale me with some tales from the dugout. I'm sure you have plenty!"

The portly man leads him away with a companionable arm over his shoulder and he shoots her a look as he disappears – those god damned blue eyes conveying a million separate thoughts (disappointment, hurt – _you can have something_ – fuck).

She averts her gaze to her cocktail and frowns, thinking maybe she should have ordered something a little bit stronger.

-/-

"I know you're afraid." He whispers in her ear and she jumps. Where the actual fuck did he even_come from_? Jesus.

She turns away from the bathroom mirror with a sigh. "You can't be in here."

He doesn't answer her. Instead he takes a step forward, pressing her back against the vanity. She can feel her heart beating in her chest, his lips close enough to _taste_, her body humming at his proximity. And still, this is so _stupid_ – someone could walk in literally _any moment_ and he is risking all of that to _talk to her_?

"I know you're afraid." He continues. "But it's okay. I'm not like him."

It hits her straight in the chest, runs through her with the honest sincerity of it. She deflates. "Killian –"

"Meet me at the field after all of this? I'll behave the rest of the night, I promise. Just –" He fingers a lock of her hair and tucks it behind her ear. "Meet me at the field."

He doesn't wait for her answer (her _rejection_), just turns and leaves her with her thoughts in the small bathroom. She follows after him a moment (and several deep breaths) later, looking for his messy black hair in the crowd.

She doesn't find him, and she can't tell if she's relieved or annoyed.

-/-

The grass is warm beneath her toes as she slips off her heels, padding quietly across the infield to where he's stretched out in left field. He hasn't noticed her - or if he has, he hasn't acknowledged her presence - and the silent cocoon of the stadium walls rise around her. He's right, there is a certain magic being here at night when it's empty and muted, the echo of _tradition_ and _summer_ thrumming through her bones and making her blood sing. She can hear the quiet, rhythmic chirp of crickets - a summer song whispered between the blades of grass. The quick flash and dim of lightning bugs swirl around her and she breathes in deep - fresh cut grass and dirt and sweat and _baseball_. The pureness of it all causes her lips to curve slightly, even as her heart beats madly in her chest.

Even through the fear and anxiety, she can't shake the feeling that _this is right_. She's supposed to be here, with him, in this moment.

He leans up slightly as she comes closer, balancing on his elbows and tilting his head in silent consideration. He's still wearing his suit jacket, but he's unbuttoned his collar a bit - his tie thrown off behind his head. He gives her a half smile as she grows closer, gnawing on his bottom lip when she tosses her shoes next to him and lays on her back without a word.

She can feel him staring at her, feel his eyes as they work over her from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair, slipping like a warm blanket, a molten heat - the embodiment of his caress burning her from the inside out. But she keeps her eyes firmly on the city lights reflecting in the sky, relaxing slightly when he lays down next to her.

His fingers brush hers and her hand twitches.

"I'm not good at this." She whispers. She turns her head to look at him and meets his steady gaze, his eyes so _blue, _even in the dim glow of the half-lights. She tries to articulate how _bad_ she is at relationships, how everything she touches crumbles to dust, how she is _never_ enough - certainly not enough for someone like him - a man who can have literally any woman he wants. Instead she frowns, turning her head and trying to find the stars amongst the too-bright lights from the cityscape. "I just, I don't know how to do this."

"Do you like me?" His voice is soft, quiet, and she lets her eyes drift to his - helpless to do so - pulled to him by some sort of gravitational force that is just wholly unfair. His grin is small and shy and this time he lets his fingers twist through hers, squeezing gently.

His eyebrows arch eye on his forehead. "Do you like me?"

She bites her lip and nods because _yes_, she likes him - stupid idiot that he is. His grin widens, eyes dancing in mischief.

"Now ask me." At her perplexed look, he rolls his eyes, turning on his side slightly and propping his head up with the hand not holding hers. "Ask me, Emma."

This is stupid - beyond stupid, actually - it's childish and he's _making fun of her _and -

"Emma," His fingers release hers to graze her cheek, sliding along her jaw. "Ask me."

"Do you -" Her voice stutters and shakes, her eyes fixed intently on the corner of the scoreboard over his shoulder. "Do you like me?"

She hates how small she sounds, how _afraid_ she is of something that should be so easy. She hates that Neal did this to her, that he left behind such a shell of a person.

Killian's fingers press against her with gentle insistence until she's looking at him again, tilting his face forward until his nose brushes hers.

"I like you." He sighs, his breath whispering against her lips. She can practically feel his smile when they are this close, the air around them humming with tension. Her hand inches up against his chest, pressing flat in the space above his heart. "I like everything about you and I -" It's his turn to stutter and it makes her breath easier, her fingers clenching in his shirt. "I'm not good at this either, but I like you. I like you a lot."

The lights in the stadium go out suddenly, plunging them into inky darkness without any warning at all. She can still make out the outline of his jaw as he hovers above her, the tension brewing with their admissions hanging thick and hazy. There is no Leroy to interrupt them this time, no maintenance man with a vacuum strapped to his back.

She noses forward, lets her lips brush against his. He inhales sharply but doesn't move, his fingers tightening against her jaw.

It's the hesitation, just like in the locker room, the way he's waiting for her to move, waiting for her to be _sure_, that has her surging forward, capturing his lips with hers. He groans immediately, a low sound of appreciation caught in the back of his throat as she presses herself against him, her fingers sliding against the warm skin of his neck and anchoring in his hair.

He responds in kind, twisting his hand through her curls and tugging gently, pulling her head back and leaning further over her in the soft grass - lips chasing lips, his tongue sliding against hers as she gasps into it. It's all heat - soft and warm as he kisses her like she _means_ something, like if he doesn't he will cease to breathe, cease to _be_. She fingers at the collar of his shirt and tilts her head, brushes her nose against the rough scruff of his cheek as he sucks at her bottom lip.

She tugs at him and he comes willingly, angling his body over hers completely until his knee is pressed in the ground between her own, his elbows balancing lightly on either side of her head. He doesn't pause his exploration of her mouth, his lips bruising as he breathes _life_ back into her. She feels giddy with it - his body pressed so tightly against hers, the little noises whispered from his mouth – it feels _good_ and she lets her body melt under his, his chest pressing down into her own.

She presses up with her hips and he stills above her, leaning back slightly and peering down at her. His eyes are hooded and dark and she can feel every exhale, his warm breath tickling at the hollow of her throat. He watches her carefully as he pushes his hips forward in response, a slow thrust that makes her bite her lip and whine. He does it again – a slow drag of his body – and the noise that leaves her mouth is nothing short of embarrassing – a hiccupped sigh, a whispered moan.

She can _feel_ him through the thin material of her dress – hot and heavy and hard and _fuck_ –

The hand still in her hair tugs again and he nips at her exposed neck, lips and teeth and warm tongue caressing in rhythm with his body moving above her. He presses himself to her more firmly, his free hand glancing down her side and grazing her breast on its journey to her thigh, gripping it and yanking it over his hip. It causes their lower bodies to fall more perfectly in line and she pants, the restriction of her skirt frustrating because she needs _more – _needs to feel him _there_ – the pressure too much, too hot. He seems to agree with her unspoken thought because his hand slips higher against the bare skin of her leg, pressing at the hem of her skirt with an agitated jerk. His lips continue to suck at her collarbone and she lifts her hips, letting him push the material up around her waist, granting freedom to her legs as she wraps them around his hips. He moans and ruts against her and she doesn't even care that she is half naked in a god damned baseball field. The only thought she can comprehend at the moment is that she is infinitely glad she put on her nice underwear this morning – black and lacey and expensive.

(She did not think of him as she put them on – she absolutely _did not_.)

His hand wraps around her hip – caressing bare skin and lace and he curses into her neck, letting his head fall into her collarbone. He lingers there for a moment and she cards her fingers through his thick hair, letting her nails graze his scalp with every pass. He sighs and presses a kiss to her neck, drags his lips up to her ear and catches the soft skin of her earlobe between his teeth. She squirms and he chuckles, warm and deep, a happy lightness in her chest at the sound.

He leans back and brushes his lips over hers, soft and tender. "Emma, I –"

But she isn't interested in what he has to say, she just wants to _feel_. She tugs him back down to her and he follows easily, a rumbling growl vibrating in his chest when she pushes against his shoulders, rolling them over in a somewhat coordinated move that even has _her _impressed. She smiles into his kiss as she settles on her knees above him, grinding herself against the bulge in his slacks, pinpricks of heat flooding through her body. His fingers anchor on her hips, sliding under the thin straps of her underwear until he meets bare skin, guiding her gently above him – back and forth, back and forth. She almost doesn't notice the light spray of water against her arm (lost in him) until he laughs against her lips – the clicking of the sprinklers coming to life interrupting the stillness that surrounds them.

She shrieks as the water becomes more forceful, little jets of ice cold pressing against her skin. She scrambles off of him with two hands against his chest and makes straight for the dugout, tugging her skirt down to cover her ass as she runs. He's laughing behind her – loud and carefree and she's just about to turn around and smack him upside the head when he crashes against her back, arms wrapping around her waist to keep her steady. He's holding her shoes – stupid, sweet moron – and she relaxes into his hold, angling her chin up to catch his lips over her shoulder.

"Did you –" She sighs when he runs his scruff against her neck, a shiver working its way through her body. She tells herself it's because she's practically soaked to the bone, but that's probably not true. "I mean – do you want – I don't think – I just –"

"Emma." He turns her in his arms, little smile twisting his lips and eyes practically sparkling in the pitch black of the field. "Did you want to come back to my place?"

She fingers at the buttons on his shirt while her head and heart battle it out, her mind screaming at her about _inappropriate _and _playboy baseball players_ while her heart thrums in time with his thumb against her cheek. She meets his gaze and her mind abruptly silences, the look he's giving her all the confirmation she needs.

"Okay." She whispers.

His smile grows wider and he drops his mouth to hers - a careful soft kiss that holds nothing but promise.

"I can make you a drink with my SodaStream."

She rolls her eyes.

-/-

He's nervous – moving around his freakishly clean apartment and rearranging things, shoving a stack of magazines under the couch, fumbling with the remote to the tv. A Roomba makes an appearance (of course he has one, _of course_) and he abruptly strides towards it, cursing and fumbling and trying to turn it off. It relaxes her to see him acting like a moron, the cute way he scratches behind his ear and shuffles back and forth endearing and sweet, putting her and him in the same boat of awkward and nervous. She pulls his suit jacket tighter around her body (he gave it to her when they were walking to the parking lot, slipping it over her shoulders without a word, shy grin tilting his lips as his fingers grazed the back of her neck) and rocks back on her heels, humming with an arched eyebrow when he finally looks at her, the Roomba still humming happily in his hands.

His eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushed and he is _blushing_ – cocky, arrogant, innuendo-for-everything Killian Jones – is blushing.

It does something to her, makes her more brazen to know that _she_ has caused this reaction in him. That he _likes_ her – told her so with such sincerity that it seeped into her skin, warming her empty chest with a fiery light she hasn't felt in _months_ (but she has felt it, her mind whispers, she's felt it with _him_). She shrugs off his jacket and places it carefully on his kitchen counter top, stepping closer to him and the buzzing monstrosity in his hands. He's watching her every movement, body completely still as she toes off her shoes.

They both know why she's here – they both want the same thing. She _aches_ for it – the strong way his body moved above her, the pull of his shoulders beneath her palms, his stilted breath against her skin – _god_, she needs more.

"Killian." She steps closer, angling her arm behind her back to reach the closure of her dress. He swallows heavily as she pulls it down, the whine of the zipper loud in the otherwise silent apartment. She drops the loose material and it falls in a puddle around her feet, leaving bare skin and black lace on display for his hungry eyes. She tries not to cross her arms under his intense perusal, tries to remain stock still. "Put the Roomba down."

He puts the Roomba down.

His hands immediately reach for her in a flurry of movement, calloused palms running over her hips and around her back, pulling her into him firmly. She sighs at the contact, the way the stiff material of his shirt grazes the swell of her breasts as his lips claim her own.

"You're a tease." He whispers and she idly notices that he is moving them backwards, his strong and measured steps forcing them down the narrow hallway to what she assumes is his bedroom. Her stomach clenches in sweet anticipation as his fingers glide under the back of her bra, not yet undoing the strap, but toying with it lightly.

"It's not teasing when you intend to follow through."

"Is that so?"

She nods as he pushes against the door, her nose brushing his, their legs tangling together as he pushes her back lightly onto the bed suddenly at her back. She bounces and he follows, sliding over her with his heavy weight until he's nestled between her thighs, the jut of his erection pressing just where she needs him. She arches beneath him and tangles her fingers in his hair, pressing her hips into his until she sees stars cloud the edges of her vision, starting an easy rhythm with her ankle hooked around his calf. He pushes back in time with her gentle movements and she bites at her lip, whimper lodged in her throat at the blissful heat that is coiling in her belly.

She feels like a teenager but she _loves _it – loves the way he makes her feel.

His lips dip down to the soft skin not confined by her bra cup, nudging with his nose until the material gives and her puckered skin is revealed to his dark and hooded eyes. His growl pushes through her skin and hums in her bones as he sucks and nips and licks and she think she might die – he feels so _good_ – all that talk obviously coming from somewhere.

(She never had any doubt – she watched him when he worked out – the strong line of his neck when he tilted his head back to check the weights, the muscles in his shoulders flexing and relaxing, the definition in his biceps, the way his shirt clung to his chest with sweat making her think dangerous things as she watched from the press corner.)

He leans up briefly and she know what he wants without him having to articulate it – her fingers fumbling with his belt as he works to unbutton his shirt. He tears it from his body with a furious jerk and she snickers when his arm gets caught, abruptly cutting off when he kicks off his pants and grabs her ankle, dragging her down against the bed so that her legs are hanging off and their hips are pressed together. He grinds against her and she is breathless – lost in the pleasure of him and she just, she _needs_ –

"Emma." His voice is rough and strained, accent thick and delicious as it glides over her heated skin. She leans up and unhooks her bra as he rolls his hips against hers again, tossing the lacey scrap of fabric off to some far off corner of the room.

They've both had enough of foreplay – months of heated looks and teasing words and careful touches. She is beyond turned on, the heat pooling between her thighs, leaving her wet and wanting and _throbbing_ for him. His thumbs slide under the thin band at her waist and pull, tugging her underwear carefully down her legs. She watches as his throat bobs (his neck, _holy shit_, his _neck_), eyes dancing along exposed skin, adorably focused on her chest as she leans up and hooks her fingers into his boxer briefs.

She presses a kiss to his tattoo, the emblem that resides on the warm skin above his heart. It feels like forever ago since she first saw it, the same desire to run her tongue along the thin edges overcoming her then. Except this time, she can.

So she does.

"Is this okay?" He whispers and one eyebrow arches as she lays back down, his boxers kicked away in the same direction as her bra, her arms raised over her head in silent supplication.

It softens her heart, the way he asks, earnest and genuine as he stands naked between her thighs. She slides her legs around his hips and tugs him closer, until he's brushing against her and they both moan.

"Come on, pirate." She hardly recognizes the breathy tone of her own voice – wanton and needy in the dark room. "Show me what you got."

He blinks at her and then grins – slow and dark – and his hands pull on her hips, yanking her towards him and thrusting forward in the same, quick motion. She keens as he fills her – so full, so very, very _full_. He gives her one precious second to adjust and then he starts to move – slow, deep rolls of his hips that have her _aching_ – his body making hers _sing_. He drops down onto his palms, hovering above her and she lets her hands slide over his muscled back. Baseball has made him lean and strong, his arms flexing as he pushes and pulls, her fingers tracing the sinuous movement. Her nails dig into the skin at the base of his spine as he finds _that_ spot and he growls, pushing his hips faster and faster.

"Killian. Killian, I-" His mouth meets hers, tongue sweeping as the heat pushes higher. She's never felt like this before, never felt so _much_. His hand glides along her stomach and with a gentle brush, he finds where they are joined, thumbing at her until she can no longer focus, can no longer _breathe_. She drops her head back with a loud sigh and his lips close over the soft skin where neck meets shoulder. She feels like she can burst and she is so close – so close she can just –

She shatters beneath him when his teeth pull at her breast, pulsing heat centering and then exploding out. Her body trembles as her release washes over her without warning and still he doesn't stop, his fingers still moving against her as his hips piston in and out. She can just make out a flash of teeth - a low, strained chuckle.

"That's a good girl." He whispers with a groan. "Just like that."

It's too much and not enough, everything spinning together into a haze of pleasure and _him_ and –

"Fuck." He stills above her, hand slamming on the mattress next to her head as warmth blossoms between her thighs. His face collapses into her neck as he pushes them both through it, the soft brushes of his hips against hers making her jerk in his arms. He chuckles – a breathy, surprised sound – and she echoes it, fingers tangled in his sweaty hair.

He pulls back and presses a kiss to her nose, her mouth. He smiles down at her and looks at her in thinly veiled wonder. She feels powerful and cherished when he looks at her like that. She feels_safe_.

"Holy shit." He sighs.

She bites her lip and nods because yes, holy shit indeed. He pulls himself off of her and urges her up the bed, climbing after her and pulling the sheets around them. Her fingers graze his bicep as she collapses into the large, luxurious pillows and she silently wonders how much he got them for. Was it a two for one special? Maybe they are from the Martha Stewart Collection?

He curls himself around her, nosing at her shoulder when the silence is suddenly disturbed – their post-coital bliss shattered when the Roomba comes tearing into the room. It slams into the wall with a muffled crashing noise and continues to force itself into the corner, a cacophony of sound.

"Bloody hell."

She burrows further down in the sheets as he slides out of the bed, pulling on his boxer briefs and marching over to where the Roomba is repeatedly trying to destroy itself. He's muttering angrily under his breath and she smiles, watching the way the muscles in his back move and flex as he bends at the waist.

"Bloody waste of money, this." He looks at it like it might actually attack and she laughs, the pillow against her face muffling the noise. He leaves the room – to shove the thing in a closet, probably – and she breathes deep – sex and spice swirling in the air around her. She feels heavy, sated – deliciously boneless and perfectly _used_, the ghost of his touch still lingering on her skin.

The bed dips with his weight and she presses her toes against his shin, sighing when his arm slides over her hip, tugging her more firmly into him. He presses a kiss against her forehead and she hums.

"I'll leave in a minute." She mutters. She doesn't want to abandon the warmth of his bed (or his arms) yet, her comfort too seductive. She hasn't felt this good in a while and she wants to chase the feeling, stay burrowed in these soft sheets forever.

(She is happy when it only scares her a little – this sweeping desire to _stay_.)

He tenses minimally and tangles his fingers in her hair, pressing his leg between hers. "Or you could stay."

She cracks her eyes open (when did they even close?) and tilts her head back, taking in the soft smile on his face. He presses a kiss to the corner of her lips.

"Stay." He whispers. That same silly, stupid grin lifts his mouth – his tongue gliding across his bottom lip. "I can try out my new egg scrambler in the morning."

She huffs a laugh into the skin of his chest, pressing her lips to the space above his heart. "You're an idiot."

He hums as she tucks herself more firmly into his embrace, switching off the light above her head and bringing the blankets tighter around their shoulders.

"You like it."

She does. She really, really does.


	9. Chapter 8

_Beyond thankful for all of your messages of support. You guys make writing so fun, I can't even tell you how much it means to me you like this little tale. _

_Another _**_M rated _**_chapter. This chapter was like pulling teeth, I apologize for the delay. _

**Chapter 8**

Honestly, his expectations had been low. He hadn't expected her to come to the field at all. He wanted it, certainly, had laid out on the grass and thought of nothing but her - the curve of her lips as she smiled, the way that red dress she was wearing at the gala hugged her lithe frame, the curtain of blonde that smelled like honey and something else, something distinctly _Emma _and he wanted to bury his face in it, breathe in deep and just -

So he had been surprised when she suddenly appeared before him - like he had conjured her straight from his imagination. And she kept on surprising him with her breathy words and serious eyes and her _I like you_.

Because it was everything he wanted to hear - the things he wanted that he didn't think he _could_ want - not anymore.

It wasn't a trick to get her into bed (he would have put the Roomba somewhere else - like off the bloody balcony had he known she intended to come over, he would have changed the sodding sheets - _bloody hell_) when he had told her how he felt. Ever since his brush with the inactive list - ever since _you could have something_ when she offered her feelings to him on a silver platter and he had practically fallen to her knees in front of her because she had no idea - not even an inkling of what that meant, of what she was saying.

But maybe she did. Maybe she saw something in him that she could fix, put back together. Because_ gods above_, he saw something in her. For the first time in years, he saw hope and happiness and warmth, all in the way she looked at him, in the way she challenged him and smacked him across the back of his head and tangled her fingers with his when he was unconscious and sprawled out on a table.

(He remembered her soft touch, the feel of her hand in his as he lay awake in the hospital - his hand flexing as the ghost of it lingered, burning into his skin.)

And the way she felt beneath him - the way she looked when she came undone - for _him_. _Seven hells_, it was almost too much. He had been positively glowing when he shuffled back into the room, Roomba handled and dismantled, Emma Swan adorably rumpled and _naked _in his bed.

He wanted her to stay.

Forever.

_Bloody hell._

He stretches with a light groan and tilts his head to the side, pushing his arms further beneath the pillows as he regards the woman next to him.

She's all wrapped up in his sheets, one leg thrown out from underneath the covers, pale skin on display all the way up to the jut of her hip. His fingers graze her thigh (because he can't help it - not when she looks like _this_ - all soft curves and warm skin) and she shuffles, a little sigh whispered from her lips that sounds suspiciously like his name and he grins.

She turns over to her side, wrapping even _more _of his blankets around her, a soft snore echoing through her nose and his grin widens, a soft chuckle under his breath as he runs his palm over her curls.

(The snoring thing hadn't been an exaggeration - the woman sounded like a freight train that night in St. Louis.)

It feels like a dream - light and weightless, like he could just spin right out of orbit - her hair twined through his fingers, her toes pressed against his leg beneath the sheets. He feels content and at peace and - he shifts again, stretching - _deliciously_ sore.

He slides out from beneath the very little bit of blankets she has allowed him to have and pads quietly to the door, intent on making some breakfast before she wakes. He doesn't get to cook often, and he wasn't joking last night when he said he was eager to try out his egg scrambler.

He had tried to make Robin an omelette once, but the man had practically laughed him out of the kitchen when he saw the scrambler - it's been hidden away in a high cabinet ever since.

He flicks on the coffee maker and goes about pulling all the necessary ingredients - trying to decide between white or wheat, white or wheat - when he hears a shuffling behind him. He turns and his breath catches in his throat like a god damned _pre pubescent child_ because while he thought Emma in lingerie was a sight to behold, all black lace and creamy skin - _gods above_ - Emma wearing nothing but his oversized pirates t-shirt is infinitely better.

She looks like she belongs here - with _him _- and it makes his chest ache with longing.

He _wants_ this - her with her wild hair and heavy lids and fingers valiantly trying to inch down the hem of his shirt.

"Hey." She whispers and he can't help the grin that spreads in response. A light blush stains her cheeks as she averts her gaze to his chest, the blush deepening when she notes his lack of shirt.

Or maybe it's the bright, red hickey on his collarbone.

Probably the latter.

She shifts closer to him and runs her thumb over the mark, wincing slightly. "Sorry about that."

He catches her hand in his and squeezes because he's not sorry about the mark, not sorry about a damn thing thats happened in the last 24 hours. And he doesn't want her to be either. He gestures towards the stool on the other side of the breakfast bar and she smiles shyly, grabbing two empty mugs on her way and pouring a cup of coffee for both him and herself.

"Am I getting the full Killian Jones treatment?"

He's so caught up in the way she looks sitting across from him - sipping from his mug, sitting in his shirt - that he doesn't quite hear the question.

"Pardon?"

She tilts her head to the side as she regards him, sipping quietly at her mug. "Do all the women get to try out the scrambler?"

"Uh, well -" He chuckles nervously and scratches behind his ear. "That would involve having a woman spend the night."

"You don't usually let them stay?"

Her voice is just a bit incredulous (and something else, something darker and sad and he wants to wipe it away with his thumb against her lip, a kiss against her jaw) and he tries to think of the best way of explaining it without coming off like an arrogant dick - which is exactly what he was - is - whatever. He doesn't want to be talking about this with _her, _but he knows very well how insistent she can be and if he just avoids the topic, it will be worse and -

_Shit_.

"It's hard to let someone stay when they never come over."

That adorable furrow forms between her eyebrows and his hand clenches over the Scrambler.

"I don't follow."

He wonders if she is being obtuse on purpose, or genuinely doesn't understand. He pauses his tinkering with the Scrambler (the sodding plastic pieces are cheap and practically crumble in his hands and are definitely not scrambling anything at the moment) and sighs, fixing her with a pleading, if not exasperated, look.

"You are the first woman I've invited back to my place. Typically I would encourage a woman to take me to hers, or merely find a suitable - preferably private - corner." He frowns and averts his gaze again. "I'm not particularly proud of it."

"Oh." She says quietly, and then, much more serious -

"Oh."

He fights back the hysterical bubble of laughter and moves to grab some toast, pushing it down a bit too forcefully in the toaster. _Bloody hell_, all he wanted was a nice breakfast and here he is describing how he is a failure at intimacy, and relationships, and _life_ -

"Well, you shouldn't worry." He looks up to see her pop a strawberry in her mouth. _When did he get strawberries?_ "This was just a one time thing."

His awkwardness dwindles in the face of her open challenge and he arches an eyebrow, shoulders relaxing back. "Oh, is it now?"

A grin flirts with the corners of her lips as she swings her legs back and forth, strawberry perched prettily between her fingers.

"Yup," She pops the last letter of the word and he wants to taste it on her lips, along with the strawberry juice that stains them. He puts the scrambler down and slowly rounds the countertop. "Just releasing some tension."

"Oh?" She turns on the stool to meet him and he steps between her parted legs, getting a glimpse of that damned black lace as the shirt inches up higher. He lets his fingers skim the tops of her thighs and it's electric, the air around them humming to life with the simplest of skin to skin contact. He wonders if she feels it too - this _need_ - but judging by the way her breath hitches and eyes widen, she does. "So you wouldn't be interested in dinner then?"

She huffs out a laugh and he feels it against the hollow of his throat. "You're awfully confident on dinner for a man who can't even do breakfast."

"I've been distracted." He mutters into the skin of her neck. She's got a hickey of her own, right under her ear, and he lets his lips graze it lightly. She shivers and melts into him, her leg hooking around his.

She pulls him into a kiss and he forgets everything else in favor of the way her teeth drag against his bottom lip, the way a whimper gets lodged in her throat when he hauls her against him, grinding forward. He picks her up, toast be damned, and marches them back to the bedroom, her laughter like music in his ears - dissolving into a throaty moan when he slips his hand up her shirt. She isn't wearing a bra and he idly considers the table in the hallway, taking her on it because she is arching and panting his name and he's thought about this a million times - the way her skin feels pebbled under his fingertips, round and soft and perfect.

He's only had her once but he doesn't think it will ever be enough.

(She tastes like strawberries and home and _gods above, _he is lost at sea with her - happily and helplessly tumbling in waves of _her_.)

They manage to slow in the bedroom, her fingers inching up his shirt until her skin is on glorious display in the shallow light that filters in through the window, her palm gliding across his chest and tugging until he hovers above her. She doesn't take time for pleasantries as she spreads her legs, biting down on her lip as he pushes into her, head tipped back, curls thrown over his arm in a golden waterfall - and it is _everything_ - her green eyes locked on his as he moves. He watches for what she likes, memorizes the way her eyelashes flutter against her cheek when he pulls her leg higher over his hip, the way she tightens her fist in the sheets when he tells her how gorgeous she looks splayed under him. He finds the spot inside that makes her breath catch and presses for it again and again and _again _until she is crumbling beneath him - back arched and breasts bouncing and he isn't one for American curse words but - _holy fucking shit_.

He collapses next to her on the bed, limbs sweaty and exhausted, quite content to spend every morning this way.

(It is both terrifying and wonderful - this desire to have, and have always.)

"Okay." Chest heaving, she turns and looks at him, color rising high on her cheekbones. She's a vision, she is, and he feels himself fall a little further. "Maybe a two time thing?"

He rolls to his side and drags his fingers across her stomach, her body squirming under his feather light touch. "Care to try for a third?"

She moves to smack his hand away but he grips her fingers in his, pressing them lightly to his lips. She sighs and softens, and a smile works its way through.

"Idiot."

But she kisses him, and that's something.

-/-

It isn't until she leaves - shimmying back into her dress from the night before, the long line of her legs disappearing between wrinkled, red fabric - that he realizes she never agreed to dinner.

And she stole his shirt.

He chuckles under his breath as he cleans up the abandoned eggs and toast, tossing the scrambler in the dishwasher (another bloody useless device - he really needs to curb his buying habits).

He scrubs the counter a little harder. If anything, he does love a challenge.

-/-

Robin is already there when he swings into the locker room, shrugging on a pirates t-shirt for their marketing photo shoot that afternoon. Usually he would avoid a thing like this at all costs, but Emma was the one to send him the reminder email, and if he has the opportunity to try and lure her into dinner again, he damn well is going to take it.

He hardly slept last night, pathetically rolling over to the side of the bed she had occupied and breathing in deep, catching the lingering hints of cinnamon on his pillow.

He bought a brand new set of mixing bowls - a set for Mary Margaret as well.

He sighs and collapses into his locker and is immediately flooded with images of pushing Emma up against it - the soft catch in her breath, the way her hips felt pushing into his - gods, he needs _more_.

"Is that," Robin's voice is vaguely amused. "Is that a hickey?"

His hand automatically goes up to cover the red mark and Robin laughs harder.

"Are you sixteen again?" He throws his bag into his locker and sits down on the small bench, facing Killian with a wide grin. "What will Emma say when she sees it?"

And he must be a teenager because his cheeks flush hot and he averts his gaze, scratching idly at the back of his head as he tries _very hard_ not to think about _exactly what_ Emma had to say as her teeth sunk into his skin, hips moving against his own, her nails dragging against his shoulders.

"Are you -" He snaps his gaze back up to an incredulous looking Robin. He's never seen the man gape so openly and he really thought _mouth open in shock _was an expression, not an actual thing. He fidgets. "With Emma?"

"Emma, what?"

David's voice is loud and booming and Killian has to grip the sides of the bench in order to not fall over. _Seven hells_, this is not how he wanted David to find out - a hickey on his neck and Robin being the dolt he is, shouting out her name like he was bragging about it and -

He is going to die. David is going to kill him and he is going to die.

David's eyes flicker between the two of them, and then he sees it, gaze narrowing on the now purple mark just above the collar of his shirt. Killian knows he does because the vein in his forehead throbs dangerously and he drops his bag with an ominous thump. And while David isn't the smartest tool in the shed, it doesn't take a scholar to put it together.

He takes one strong step forward and then his fingers are around his neck, lifting him bodily off the seat and shoving him back into the locker. He would be impressed with the man's sheer strength if his windpipe wasn't closing in and you know, struggle for air and all that.

He is definitely going to die.

"David." He wheezes out. "Listen, mate."

"I told you to stay away from her." He seethes. His eyes are dangerous and he is not handling this well at all. Not like he expected them to sit down and have a nice tea about it, but -

Robin is attempting in vain to pull him off, the fury giving David some sort of animalistic strength as black spots cloud the edges of his vision. He vaguely hears something about _concussion_ and _hospital_ and David finally relents. Killian crumbles to the ground as David pulls away with a sputtering cough and as he lays upon the black carpet of the locker room, he is infinitely glad no one else is here yet.

Good luck explaining all this.

"You have less than thirty seconds to explain yourself." David grits out between clenched teeth and Killian rolls to his back, hands held palm up in supplication.

"Listen, she wanted to give me the hickey." David makes a lunge for him again but Robin pushes him back, shooting Killian a glare in the process. Okay, so not the best opening line. He swallows hard and sits up on his elbows.

"I didn't intend to - " He runs his hand through his hair. "It's more than -"

"Jones."

He takes a deep breath. Suddenly faced with the very real need to articulate his feelings for Emma, he can't. How does he explain what her smiles does to him, the soft curving of her lips as she looks at him from the press box? How does he explain that he can finally _breathe_ with her around, the crushing weight of years of loneliness disappearing with her blonde curls and sea green eyes?

"I like her." He whispers and it is so pathetic and _small_ - what he feels for her a growing, aching ebb within him. It pulls at him like the tide - relentless, timeless - tugging him under and consuming him with hardly a thought.

"I just," He finally meets David's gaze, the anger in the other man's eyes dimming slightly. "I like her a lot."

David roughly twists out of Robin's grip, eyeing Killian carefully. "This isn't one of your games?"

He shakes his head and sits up. "No, I swear it. I wouldn't do that to her. Or you."

After another beat, David extends his hand. There is a silent apology in the nod of his head and Killian gives him a shaky grin, still trying to get his heart to settle in his chest.

"She was the one before, wasn't she?" He's talking about the _you deserve good things too_ and Killian nods because he's slowly beginning to realize its always been her.

David hums under his breath and Robin rolls his eyes, disappearing around the corner and no doubt thanking his stars Regina has no siblings to speak of - by blood or not.

"So will you help me get her to go to dinner with me?"

The smack on the back of his head is not completely unexpected, and yet he still winces, dodging to the side to avoid any further blows to the head. Can't be good for his concussion.

"Don't press your luck."

-/-

Photoshoots are a ridiculous flutter of activity - people preening, telling him how to move, how to smile. He feels ridiculous the entire time, completely out of his element and on display - like an animal in a cage or a pre-teen at her first ball.

Especially with Swan in the corner, sneaking glances when he can't even acknowledge it, her gaze burning a hole through the side of his head.

"Just be casual." The photographer spits out commands from behind the flashing lights and Killian frowns because how the bloody hell are you supposed to _casually_ hold a bat when there is no ball, and no other players, and half the team is giggling at the way you grin and the lights are blinding and you can't even think straight -

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye as Emma steps closer behind the camera, making sure to put herself in his direct line of sight. He blinks rapidly as she meets his gaze, her hair in a low braid, his fingers just itching with the desire to wrap it around his palm - tug her head back and kiss her senseless. A slow smile works it's way over her lips (like she can hear his very thoughts - the minx) and he is helpless but to return it, warmth flooding through him at the way her cheeks color.

"Perfect!" He snaps out of his daze as the photographer finally lowers his camera, pushing him off to the side and ushering another player on to the small little section of black curtains and waiting interns.

He heads straight for her because he can see her doubting herself in the hunch of her shoulders and her rapidly darting gaze. He grabs her elbow and hauls her back to another section of secluded curtains, ducking behind them and pressing her carefully against the wall. She shuffles her clipboard between them and gives him an _are you serious, right now? _look - all unamused frown and high eyebrows.

He wants to kiss her.

"Go to dinner with me."

"Killian," She sighs his name. "We've been over this. One time thing."

He takes a step forward until she is caged in against the wall, watching the way her throat bobs with a hard swallow. She can pretend all she wants, but he sees the way her eyes grow dark, the way her gaze lingers on him.

He saw the way she smiled - the way all her walls came tumbling down in one beautiful moment.

_I like you. I like you. I like you. _

He repeats her breathy words like a mantra in his head.

"I think we can both agree that it was a two time thing, darling. At the very least." He does something obnoxious with his eyebrows because he feels a little bit too raw, like _too much_ is on the line. She rolls her eyes and scoffs, but doesn't move to push him away.

She bites her lip and he watches as the blush rises on her cheek, reminded of another night so very long ago when there was a room bustling with media at his back, a brand new PR director at his front, staring up at him with wide green eyes and pink, _pink_ lips as she urged him to be a _gentleman_.

"Emma, please." He pulls on a loose curl and she does her best to fight a smile, but still it pokes through. "You like me, remember? I heard you say it. Now, if you truly mean it - if you truly do not want anything more to do with me, this will be the last time I ask. If you say no, I'll never bother you again."

She arches an eyebrow. "Never?"

He hums lightly and ignores the stab of panic - does his best to seem nonchalant - like her answer won't ruin him if its a no, like he isn't already planning the whiskey soaked pity party as a result of this failure as well.

(Failure to be enough - to ever be enough. Failure to keep something _safe_ - for once in his miserable life.)

Her fingers graze the exposed skin of his arm, the tattoo of the bleeding heart. She looks up at him and he can't help but feel like this is a test. "Will you tell me about this?" Her fingers dance up his arm and glance across his collarbone, landing just above his heart and pressing her palm flat. He can feel the heat of her skin and she must be able to feel the strong, double-time staccato of his heart - a frantic beat as flashes of metal against metal flash through his mind. "And will you tell me about this?"

He lace his fingers through hers. "I'll tell you anything you want." He forces a shaky grin. "At dinner."

She considers him for another moment, and then smiles back. He feels like he's just run a marathon, unsteady on his feet, the only thing holding him to the ground her hand against his chest.

"Alright. Let's do dinner."


	10. Chapter 9

_It was a beautiful moment on Tuesday when I finished the damn thing - and a not so beautiful moment when I promptly deleted it. So hopefully this second version doesn't seem too forced. I've had far less time to write this week than anticipated. _

_I enjoy each and every comment and message you guys send my way. Writing this makes me unbelievably happy. _

_Another __**M rated**__ chapter. _

_(These two were made to bone, sorry not sorry.)_

**Chapter 9**

"You certainly look chipper." Ruby glances up at her from where she's organizing name plates for the photo shoot, sliding a coffee over to her before turning back to her work. Bless her beautiful, thoughtful soul. "Did you get laid or something?"

Ruby snickers to herself (professional as always, _jesus_) as Emma blushes, sipping at her latte instead of answering. She can feel the heat climbing her cheeks (_Killian moving above her, that damn smirk on his face, his hips rolling over hers as he lifts her leg higher_) and she internally urges herself to _calm down_ because there is no way Ruby knows – no possible way –

"Oh my god, you did, didn't you?" Ruby's mouth drops open and she leans forward, a glint in her eye, practically vibrating in her excitement. "It's about time. Who was it?"

Emma scratches behind her ear (she really needs to stop spending so much time around him) and subconsciously adjusts her braid over her shoulder, covering the hickey that she knows is on her neck. She had attempted to cover it with makeup this morning, but it was turning purple at the edges, and no level of concealer was doing the trick.

God damned adolescent.

"Uh," she takes another sip of caffeine, looking for something to distract Ruby with. "Just a guy."

"No shit. Give me the details."

She opens her mouth to respond with something about _work place etiquette_ but the players choose that moment to arrive, and they're spun into the chaos of organizing for the promotional shoot. She loses herself in her work and it isn't until _he_ steps up to get photographed that she even notices him.

Her stomach flips as he shuffles in front of the camera, frown pulling at his lips, clearly uncomfortable. His hands fumble with the glove he's supposed to be wearing and it's cute, adorable really, how awkward he is.

(_His breath hot in her ear, his hand pulling at her breast – _he definitely wasn't awkward one night ago_.)_

She can see the photographer growing frustrated and she can hear the players taunting Killian from their place to the side. She steps forward in an effort to placate the ridiculous, drama queen photographer (really, this isn't Vogue) but manages to catch Killian's eye instead. She can't help the grin that tugs her lips up, the warmth that starts in her chest and flows outward because she _missed_ him in the two days since she last saw him – missed his fingers tangled with hers and his stupid voice and his breath against her neck and his body moving over hers.

He smiles in response – a light, carefree thing – and the photographer pounces, taking a couple more shots before finally relieving Killian. His shoulders relax as he steps off the mat, eyes intently focused on her, and she tries to move away – step back and get some space because she shouldn't feel like this after being together once (_twice_ – definitely twice). It's scary and all-consuming and even with Neal, it was never like this.

He catches her elbow, perceptive as ever _god damnit_, and hauls her back behind some curtains. He crowds her space until there is barely an inch between them and when he asks her to dinner, she can't help but push back.

If it's this easy, something must be wrong.

Her gaze lingers on the tattoo on his forearm and she glances over it with her fingertips. He tenses and shivers and she knows she needs to know about these things – needs to know about his scars and his hurt because it's the one thing he's holding back from her. She needs to know if he's been hurt like her – if she can trust him with _herself_ because she wants to – wants to give him everything and all of her and it's only been once.

(Twice.)

She shakily agrees to dinner and he presses a kiss to her knuckles (that she feels in her toes, damn him) before disappearing back behind the curtain. She drops her head back against the wall and runs her fingers back and forth over her lips, focusing on her breathing and getting her heart under control because she can't even _talk_ to him without wanting more – and that is beyond terrifying.

"I knew it." Her head snaps up to Ruby grinning wolfishly at her, bouncing lightly on her toes. "You're the woman in red, I _knew_ it."

"You read too much, Ruby." She pushes past her, back out to the main room, and Ruby follows, snickering under her breath.

"I'm just happy you got laid."

-/-

Apparently when he said dinner, he actually meant dinner _immediately_, because three hours later she finds herself seated at the table in his apartment (she studiously avoids looking at the counter, or anywhere remotely in the direction of his bedroom), staring down at an elaborate meal of steak and vegetables. She attempts to tease him at his skills in the kitchen but hell, there isn't much to tease about.

"I'm just glad you finally agreed to a date."

She huffs at his cheeky grin, at the _hope _in his voice, because this isn't a date and the sooner he gets that through his (decidedly thick – medically proven and everything) skull, the better. She spears an asparagus with her fork and shoves it in her mouth.

"This isn't a date, Killian. This is a conversation."

"But there's dinner." He takes a pointed bite of steak with a grin and she tries not to let herself melt too much, tries not to remember what it feels like when those teeth graze her neck. "Oh, and look, _candlelight_."

He gestures to the candles on the table with his fork and she sighs, putting aside her cutlery and folding her hands in her lap. This was a bad idea – _sleeping_ with him was a bad idea – but if she's going to, _god_, if she's going to _let herself_ –

_It__'__s okay to like him, Emma_.

Mary Margaret's words float through her mind and she relaxes, softening her gaze. "Tell me about the tattoos."

His playful mood evaporates suddenly and he averts his gaze to his plate, cutting another piece of meat with a bit too much force, his knife screeching angrily against the dinnerware. They cringe in unison and he forces a chuckle (she doesn't miss the way his hand trembles as he lifts the fork again, the heavy swallow that moves his throat).

"I was hoping you'd forget about that." He mumbles. Blue eyes hesitantly meet hers over the low, flickering candles and the pure _sadness_ there is enough to make her breath catch. "I was hoping you'd be preoccupied with my charming graces."

She gives him a tight smile. "Not this time."

"So you admit I am sometimes charming?"

"Killian - "

He drops his head slightly and a flame of annoyance licks at her because if he is hesitant to tell her, then he's _hiding_ something, and people who hide things _hurt_ her and she just can't, not again, not with him.

"Why don't you want me to know?"

"Why _do_ you want to know?" He bites back and she can hear the edge in his voice, so unlike the carefree and jovial Killian that she flinches. He puts down his silverware with a clatter and frowns, tugging his fingers through his hair in a move he saves for when he's agitated. His eyes flicker back to hers and he sighs, shoulders deflating. "Apologies, lass. It was – it _is_ difficult for me to talk about. You understand?"

She nods because she does and she figures if she's asking him to open old wounds, the least she can do is be patient.

And honest.

"I need to know because," she begins and he shifts in his seat, fingers reaching behind his ear. She smiles slightly because at least she isn't alone in this – this terrible, sinking awkwardness. "Because I feel something for you."

Her cheeks flush in response and _god_, will she ever not feel like a teenager around him? He grins as the color intensifies and spreads, gaze drifting down her neck and darkening slightly. He hums lightly under his breath and sways forward, eyes steadfast on her collarbones.

"You like me." He supplies and it really isn't fair – his voice sounding like _that_.

"I like you." She echoes. "And I need to know about you before I – before _we_ –" She doesn't know how to say _before I let you in _so she bites at her lip and twists her fingers in her lap. Sex is easy – feelings not so much – especially with _clients_ who have a reputation for bedding and bolting.

_Jesus_, what is she even doing?

He must see the panic swell because he picks up his fork (hands still shaking and the pang in her chest is sharp), diverting his attention back to his dinner.

"Liam was ten years my senior." His voice is carefully neutral and he doesn't look at her, just keeps his gaze on the table as he visibly steels himself, shoulders back. "It was quite clear I was not a planned child, and my mother, she died on my eighth birthday. Heart attack."

She gasps because she wasn't expecting _that_, but he ignores it, soldiering on - his fork pushing around his food idly. "My father stuck it out as long as he could before he could no longer bear the sight of me. I did take after my mother in appearance, and he after she died, he couldn't even look me in the eye. Luckily, Liam caught word at Uni and was able to come and grab me before I was turned over to the homes - a nasty affair those. But I don't suppose I have to tell you that."

His entire face softens as he _finally_ meets her gaze, his dark eyebrows pulling together low on his forehead. His hair is in a chaotic sweep from his fingers and she imagines a small boy with wide blue eyes and a mess of dark hair, her heart squeezing painfully in her chest. How long had he been by himself, wondering when his father would return? How long had he waited?

He tips his head towards her in inquiry. "Your unicorns, yes?"

She nods silently because of course he would remember - he was left alone too.

_I think you__'__ll find that you have more in common than you know._

Mary Margaret wasn't kidding.

"Did you stay with Liam while he was at college?"

He softens further at the mention of his brother and cracks a wide grin, leaning back in his seat. "Aye, I did. He hid me in his dormitory after I finished school for the day. We shared one of those tiny little beds and his roommate wasn't thrilled, but I was over the moon to be with him again."

He quiets, lost in thought, his eyes far away. His fingers raise to his chest and he touches over his heart lightly, lining the place where she knows the emblem to be. "Our family crest." He explains. "Liam had it in the exact same place. I didn't get it until after."

She waits for him to go on, but he doesn't. Instead, he taps his fingers against the table in a disjointed rhythm that has her stomach sinking further and further. She can see him pull back into himself, can see the way his eyes dim and drain of color. It must be bad if -

"I met Milah when I was thirteen. She was beautiful and smart and I fell in love with her instantly." His eyes flit to hers for the briefest of seconds before he looks away again. "I know it seems young but I always did feel things strongly." His lips twitch at the corners and she finds hers mirroring. She imagines an awkward and gangly Killian, leaning up against chain link fences, flirting with anything that moved.

"We were inseparable. I was happy, incandescently so. I had Liam, I had Milah - for the first time in my decidedly short life, I had everything I needed. And then - "

He breathes out and she watches as his shoulders curl in, his tapping turning into scratching against the wooden tabletop. She can feel it in the air around them - the dread, the tension.

"We were in an accident. I was yelling at Liam about ice cream or something ridiculous, I can't really remember, when a truck hit us."

"You were - " She inhales sharply because it's just too much - _too much_ for one person - and this is not what she expected, not at all. "You were in the car?"

"Aye, ironically enough I was spared because I was _not_ wearing my seatbelt." His face crumples a bit at that and she wants to soothe her fingers over the wrinkle in his brow, push away the clench in his jaw. "They died."

The silence is consuming between them, food forgotten on the table, the dance of the candlelight casting his face in shadows. She struggles to find her voice, to say something - anything -

"And the heart - "

"Like I told you that night on the field, the heart is for everything I've lost." He stares down at his forearm and traces the faded ink with his forefinger. "My mother, my father, Milah, Liam." His voice cracks on the final two names and she bites at her lip, clenches her fingers tight at her side in an effort not to reach out to him. When he looks back up at her, his eyes are red and wide and it _hurts_ her. It hurts her that this man - this silly, stubborn, ridiculous, idiot, darling, _broken_ man - blames himself for a lifetime of being left behind.

Because she can see it - she knows it intimately herself - the self-loathing in those midnight blue depths.

"I destroy everything I touch." He whispers and she can't take it any longer, sitting away from him, watching him relive past nightmares - all because she asked him to. She pushes back her chair with a screech and he startles, blinking rapidly, staring up at her with too-wide eyes. They stare at one another for a moment that stretches into a lifetime and then he nods, more to himself than her, ducking to look back at the table. He stands on shaky legs, hand pulling roughly at his hair.

"Ah, right. I'll just show you out then."

She breaks further because he looks defeated, standing across from her with slumped shoulders, avoiding looking at her because he thinks she is _leaving_ - that his story has chased her away. She steps forward as he makes for the door, blocking his path and cupping his cheeks in her hands. His rough beard scratches against her palms and she likes the burn, likes the way his breath stutters in his chest when her thumbs slide across his cheekbones.

"It wasn't your fault." She makes sure she is looking right into his eyes when she says it, that he can see and hear the sincerity in her voice. She knows she can't fix him, can't put him back together, but she can give him this. "None of it was because of you."

"I distracted him." He mutters and maybe this is the first time he is voicing it, those dark whispers at the back of his mind, because his face is anguished - the words being dragged from his lips like jagged shards of glass. "If I hadn't been - "

She cuts him off abruptly with a kiss, pressing her lips to his, and he inhales sharply through his nose. Her fingers slide along his neck and back into his hair as she keeps it chaste, her lips brushing back and forth with soft little nips. He doesn't move, doesn't even breathe, and when she pulls back he's looking at her with a mixture of apprehension and awe.

"It was an accident - a terrible, _terrible_ accident and you were just a boy. Killian, it wasn't your fault. Okay?"

He doesn't say a word, but his hands find her hips, his fingertips digging in against bare skin. He nudges his nose against hers, a shaky exhale whispered against her lips and she takes a step backwards. The sudden movement catches him off guard but he moves with her, grasping her tighter against him to right his center of balance.

"What - "

"Shh," She presses her lips to his again, letting her shoulders relax when he chases her mouth with his own. _This_ is much more like the Killian she knows, not the sad man with his stilted words and shaking hands and dull eyes. "Let me take care of you."

He doesn't say anything in response, just lets her lead him back to his bedroom, exchanging soft, quiet kisses along the way. When they're finally in his room, pale moonlight streaming in through the open curtains, he pulls back, watching with trepidation as she sits lightly on the edge of his bed.

"You don't have to do this." He whispers. "I'd understand if you wanted to leave."

She grabs the end of his shirt and tugs him over to her, staring up at him from under her lashes. He swallows hard and lets his fingers tangle in her hair, like he can't help it (and she knows he can't, his fingers _always_ toying with an errant strand), like touching her chases the pain away.

She knows the feeling.

"I don't want to leave." She replies easily. Her hands slip under his shirt to find warm skin and he groans lightly, a deep rumble that vibrates from his chest to her hands to her bones, humming to life in her blood and making her _want_. She wants to help him forget, help him heal, and it's such a foreign feeling (this kinship, this _belonging_) that she sighs, leaning back and tugging her own shirt over her head.

"What do you need?" She whispers as her hair falls around her shoulders in a wave. She can feel his gaze on her skin as he traces a bra strap, still fidgeting in front of her, almost like he is afraid to do more than look.

"You." He supplies and she shivers, hearing the raw honesty in his simple declaration. She stands and turns him until their positions are reversed, until he is the one sitting on the bed and she is in front of him. She moves to lift his shirt from his chest, but he presses his face against her bare stomach, his wild hair ticking her skin, and she stills. Her fingers run through his hair after a moment's hesitation and he breathes in and out, carefully matching the rise and fall of his chest with hers. Something in her shifts and realigns with it, this simple moment of intimacy, and she finds herself falling into him. She thought it was just heated looks and the draw of his body but now - _now_ - she knows him, can feel how deeply he _feels_ - knows everything is so much _more_ and -

_God_, what a surprise he is.

A god-damned revelation, wrapped in innuendo and sarcastic comments.

She pushes him back until she can climb into his lap, knees balanced on either side of his hips, her fingers tugging through his hair as she kisses him long and slow. He groans into her mouth – a sharp, stilted sound – and it goes straight between her legs, building the heat that has been simmering since he caught her behind the black curtains. He pushes up as she pushes down and it is _everything_ – the way he makes her feel – all twisted and hot and _needy_.

But this isn't about her – it's about him – and she wants to help. Make it all go away.

She slides to her knees between his thighs and he makes a choked sound, hand clenching and unclenching on her upper arm.

"Emma – "

"Shh," She repeats her same careful plea, hands sure as she undoes his belt buckle. He's straining against his jeans, his hips shifting restlessly on the bed, and she grins.

"Just," She presses a kiss to his hip, right above the line of thick material, and he stutters out a breath. "Let me, okay?"

He doesn't say anything, but when she tugs at his pants he lifts his hips, letting her pull the material down until he is bare in front of her, his thick length straining against his stomach. She glides her fingers over him gently, his head falling back as he lets out a throaty, broken sound, swiping at his tip and gathering the moisture there.

She doesn't give him any warning before she takes him in her mouth, just slides her lips over him and runs her tongue along his skin. It takes her a moment to adjust - it's been a very long time since she's done _this_ - but his hand is in her hair and his eyes are practically black in the dark room as he gazes down at her and she feels _powerful_.

"Fuck." He grunts the word, his accent heavy and thick, as she drops her head down, starting a slow rhythm as she sucks at him. His hips stutter against her as she moves to take more of him in, the pressure between her thighs unbearable as he makes choked little noises above her. Her eyes meet his and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his fingertips cupping the back of her head gently, caressing instead of guiding.

"God, Emma. You're so beautiful." She lets her teeth graze his shaft and he bites down hard on his lip, a pained sort of pleasure building on his face. "Bloody hell, love, I can't –"

He tries to pull her back, but she resists, quickening her pace and tightening her lips around him. The sound that leaves his throat is nothing short of desperate and he collapses fully against the bed, pressing his hips up in time with her movements. She can feel the strain in his limbs, the shaking in his thighs, and when she runs her nails against his abdomen – she feels him swell in her mouth.

It's erotic as hell – the way she has him helpless beneath her – and she wants _more. _She wants _everything_.

"Fuck, god, _seven hells_ –" She drags her hand to his base and grips him tight and he comes with a shout, spilling in her mouth as he rides it out. She sucks him clean and forces it down and presses a lingering kiss to his tip as she pulls away, smiling when he lolls his head to the side – spent and sated, sprawled across his bed.

He drags her down against him, his mouth demanding, his tongue tasting himself on her. He groans again lightly, his fingers swiping across her stomach on their way to where she is throbbing and desperate for him. She catches his hand and leans back, smiling and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Not tonight. This was about you."

He stares at her for a moment, the same shock from earlier still lingering, like he can't quite believe she is here with him.

"You're incredible." He whispers, ghosting a kiss against her chin. She hums with a smile and tucks herself further into his embrace. She's staying - it isn't a question, not tonight.

"You'll make it up to me." She mumbles, sleep already tugging her under, lost in the warmth of him.

His chuckle is the last thing she hears before sleep claims her.

-/-

She wakes to a muted whimper, his knuckles white as he grips at his hair, curled tight away from her on the far side of the bed. She carefully turns him until he's facing her, pulling his fingers out of his hair one by one and pressing a kiss against the wrinkle in his brow. He shifts and moves against her, fingers bruising where they anchor on her hip, and his whimper cuts through her, resonates deep in her chest where her shadows are tucked. She presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat and folds herself into his embrace, tucking her head under his chin and grazing her nails against his skin in a soothing pattern until the shaking stops. He whispers her name and she sighs, drifting back into a dreamless sleep, his arm heavy around her waist.

(He wakes adorably rumpled, the creases from the pillow in a muted line across his face - reaching for her without hesitation - a sleepy kiss pressed against her nose. But his eyes are clear as he blearily looks down at her from under heavy lids and _god_ - she is so far gone.)

-/-

Falling into a pattern with Killian is easy. They don't put a name on their relationship, and for that she is glad, content in just _being_ for the first time in a long time.

Still, navigating the waters is a bit tricky, and she finds herself gnawing on her lip when he suddenly shows up outside her hotel room during the next away series.

"Swan." He nods and pushes past her (wearing only his socks, of course), slinging his backpack into a corner of the room and falling face first on the bed. He spread out his arms, shoulders stretching deliciously through the thin material of his t-shirt, and she tries not to let her gaze linger on the thin strip of skin between the hem of his shirt and his black sweatpants.

She loves those sweatpants.

"What are you doing?"

He turns to his side, arching a brow at her, grin tugging at his lips. "I came to have a cuddle."

She arches an eyebrow in return and shuffles closer to the bed, relenting to the grasp he manages to snag on her wrist and his insistent tugging. She falls into the bed next to him and he hums happily, pressing his palm against her shoulder blades until they are tucked together hip to shoulder.

"We aren't having sex on a work trip."

He huffs a laugh under his breath. "Oh, darling, I'm quite aware." He catches her mouth in a kiss and she sighs, instantly regretting her decision as soon as heat flares low in her belly. "I have a game to play in tomorrow and you have a tendency to wear me out."

She grins and lifts her leg against his hip, tugging him in closer. "Shut up."

"Merely stating fact, love." He yawns so wide, his jaw cracks. "And while I am a firm believer in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days, tonight is not the night."

"Did you just quote a baseball movie at me?"

She can feel his smile as it spreads against her neck.

"Aye, I did."

-/-

He steals second in the bottom of the fifth – his eyes shining with mirth as one of the base coaches loses his shit on the sidelines. He somehow manages to catch her gaze and he tips his head in her direction, his easy smile turning into a full blown grin. She smirks in response, a light flush of heat climbing the back of her neck because _jesus_ he looks good in that uniform.

"You two are disgusting." Ruby mutters next to her, but she's smiling, and Emma can't help the laugh that tumbles through her lips.

-/-

"Kansas City is at the end of the month." He says it easily, but she can hear the tension in his voice. They're splayed out on the couch in her living room, boxes of takeout covering her coffee table, her legs in his lap as she munches away on lo mein.

"I'm aware." She replies because she is _painfully_ aware that she will have to go back there in a month's time. Sometimes she just opens her calendar at stares at it, wonders if _he_ will be there – wonders how she is going to be able to handle seeing him again.

_(Not enough, never enough.)_

"You alright?"

She forces a smile and drops her box on the table, shuffling over him until she's firmly pressed in his lap, hips circling as she tugs on his hair and tangles her tongue with his. He groans and drops the remote, hands inching up her t-shirt.

"I'll be just fine in a minute."

-/-

"Are you wearing my sweatpants?"

His eyes widen comically as she looks down at her cotton covered legs – the material far too big on her – but they smell like him and he left them on her floor (accident, but whatever) and she couldn't resist when she pulled them out from underneath her bed.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" He sways closer to her, pressing her up against the wall in her living room, fingers dipping into the elastic at her waist. "Well, maybe I want them back."

She falls into this game with him happily because this is easy, this is right, and as each day grows closer and closer to Kansas City, anxiety swells in her gut.

But his eyes are shining and she can't help but lose herself in his happiness. She arches her back and presses their chests together, relishing in the catch in his breath when he feels she isn't wearing a bra.

"You'll have to take them, pirate."

He fucks her against the wall, hard and heavy and hot, his sweatpants hanging from one of her legs as he pushes into her again and again and again. A picture frame falls off the wall and she's pretty sure she is going to have a bruise on the base of her spine but she doesn't _care_ – not when he's making noises like that, his hips snapping against hers as his teeth sink into her neck.

After, he presses a soft kiss to her lips, carrying her back to her bed and spooning against her. His breathing evens out as soon as his head hits the pillow and she grasps his fingers in hers, breathing in the salty spice smell of him, smiling when she realizes she's wearing his pants once again.

This is easy.

This is right.

She isn't worried about Kansas City.

Not one bit.


End file.
